The Up is Down Affair
by Lihau
Summary: College man by day, UNCLE recruit by night, Napoleon Solo finds himself attracted to a foreign student: blond hair, blue eyes, and a target on his back. Modern AU. Slash, but this isn't primarily a romance.
1. Act I: Wm Shakespeare

A/N: This first chapter is a bit heavy on the quotes and pop culture references, but (at least some of it) is relevant to the plotline that shall miraculously appear in the next chapter.

Act I:

"I'd challenge you to a battle of wits but I see you're unarmed"

 _September_

There was no up. Or, at least, there wasn't according to Illya's field of vision, and that state of affairs was (by his own admission) his own doing.

Specifically, it was because he did not look up.

More specifically, it was because he did not want to look up.

To be absolutely to-the-point about it, it was because the world was too big and too depressing and too unfamiliar and he therefore had to counteract the bigness and depressing-ness and lack of familiarity by keeping his personal world as small as possible.

Up, therefore, had to go. There was a lot of up (atmosphere, stratosphere, infinitude of space, etc., etc.), and simply eliminating that mass of intimidation was therefore the easiest way to shut down as much Existence as possible in one fell swoop.

Down was still there (down into a textbook) as well as forward (forward to the point that he occasionally almost nose-planted into a computer screen). But up? There was no reason for him to look up, barring a desperate need to catch sight of a falling anvil in order to facilitate a quick tumble out of the way. Professors tended to be forward or slightly down, depending on the architecture of the classroom, so his schoolwork did not have to suffer.

Nobody tried to talk to him without his expecting them to, so there was no need to look up in surprise (save for the anvil situation). Keeping your face firmly directed toward a book while wearing headphones tended to deter people from trying to interact. The headphones didn't even have to be connected to anything: the mere presentation was enough that any idiot could recognize the universal signal for "don't bother me."

Well.

 _Almost_ any idiot.

* * *

"I suppose we'd better sit a few seats apart," April commented as they approached the designated door.

"You're abandoning me, mon amie?"

April smirked. "Only for both our sakes. You'll either try to distract me—and therefore yourself—the whole time, or you'll manage to sit with a supermodel on your other side and flirt with her the whole time. I might as well spare myself such a nauseating experience this early in the morning."

Napoleon sighed a bit but didn't protest because April was right. April was right most of the time. "Very well, Miss Dancer, I release you from your bonds of friendship for the duration of the class."

"Very generous of you, I'm sure."

She headed out to take a seat in the third row, smack in the center of the classroom. Napoleon followed and also sat smack in the center, although he chose the front row.

The front row, so he'd be distracted by fewer people's phones and laptops occasionally being illuminated.

The front row, so he could at least appear to be A Good Student on the first day of the semester.

The front row, mostly because there was a slightly-built thing with a silky mop of blond hair partly flattened by headphones, right next to the seat he happened to choose.

"Hello."

The aforementioned thing looked up and Napoleon almost gave a start, as said thing turned out to look rather more male than he'd anticipated (albeit not to such a degree as to be deterring). "Hello," the blond returned crisply. Niceties presumably over, _he_ (yes, definitely a 'he' with that voice) returned to reading the textbook opened on his desk.

"I'm Napoleon."

"That's unfortunate."

Napoleon blinked. "Sorry?"

The blond looked up again, eyes slightly narrowed in irritation, and his rather English-sounding accent lent an extra layer of disgruntlement as he carried on this apparently unwanted chit-chat. "That seems like the sort of name that would be easily mocked by your peers growing up."

"True. You?"

"No, I was mocked for things other than my name."

"Which is…?"

Resigned to his conversational fate, the blond lowered the headphones, letting them rest around his neck. "Being short and nerdy, mostly."

"I mean, what is your name?"

"Oh. Illya Kuryakin." The blond— _Illya_ —offered something that for the briefest of moments appeared to be a smile. "Forgive my mistake. My English is not yet perfect."

"And yet you're already on to advanced Spanish. Should've taken French, though. They'd have a lot of fun with a chap named 'Illya' in there. You know: _il y a un poisson_ , _il y a un homme_ …"

"I know. Hence I take Spanish."

Napoleon chuckled, propped his chin on one hand, and leaned in a bit closer. "Tell me, Illya, where are you and that adorable little accent of yours from?"

Illya blinked at a spot somewhere to the right of Napoleon for a few moments before locking on his eyes again. Napoleon figured that his front-row companion was having trouble recognizing his blatantly obvious flirting for what it was, wondered briefly if Illya and his accent were considering a violent response to such an effort, then relaxed as the blond responded in his earlier, fairly non-antagonistic tone.

"I grew up in Russia, but I learned English in England. If you already have French, you are taking Spanish for fun, yes?"

"Yes. Even though I'm a Napoleon, I also try to be a Romeo, so having several Romance languages under my belt helps."

Illya observed the brunet's smirk. "You do realize that the term 'Romance language' has nothing to do with emotion of any kind, don't you?" Napoleon frowned slightly, so he went on, "It is Romance as in Roman. They share a common background in Latin, the language of the Roman empire. Also, in the event that you wish to improve your characterization of yourself, Romeo was less a dashing romantic and more a hormonal teenage boy, so perhaps you should reconsider with whom you compare yourself."

"Your peers growing up were right. Nerd."

Illya again appeared almost to smile, but all traces of mirth quickly vaporized. He turned away and Napoleon thought that he had been offended, but a voice from the front of the room informed him that the professor had arrived and the class was beginning.

* * *

"As much fun as I've had on the straight and narrow, I think it's about time I broadened my horizons."

April turned from her cross-legged position on the floor to look up at Napoleon, who was sprawled across his bed in his and Mark Slate's dorm room. "Damn, blondie really did a number on you, huh?"

Napoleon lifted his head to meet her gaze. Surprised, pleased, impressed… the smile on his face reflected some sentiment of that variety.

"Oh, please. I was sitting behind you for seventy-five minutes. I'd have to be blind not to notice you making goo-goo eyes at him the entire time."

Now he looked insulted. "I do not make goo-goo eyes, Miss Dancer."

"Puppy-dog eyes, heart eyes… whatever you want to call them, you were making them, like, hard. I can't decide if it was impressive or hysterical but, in any case, I hope you don't think you were being subtle, 'cause there's no freaking way blondie didn't notice." She offered a placating smile in response to Napoleon's mild glare. "Sooo, what's his name?"

Solo didn't trust that particular expression on that particular person's face, but he supplied warily, "Illya."

"Napoleon and Illya, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

She stopped abruptly when a throat cleared from the doorway, followed by Mark Slate remarking, "I hate to interrupt your little campfire singalong, but I brought a guest." He stepped into the room, allowing enough space for a smaller man to join them.

"We ran into each other on my way back up. He took a liking to our sandwich fixings—" Mark slightly lifted the tray of cheese, cold-cuts, and bread. "—and I still can't resist a New York bagel, much to the displeasure of my exercise routine." A jerk of his chin brought attention to the brown paper bag clasped in the arms of their visitor. "I invited him up so we could share. Illya Kuryakin, the slobs you see before you are my friends April Dancer and Napoleon Solo."

April's face split into a grin as she pulled out the plastic dishware from a drawer stowed under the bunk beds. "Nice to meet your face, Illya." She told Mark, "The three of us have Spanish together. I had the privilege of staring at the backs of these guys' heads whenever the professor got boring."

"No kidding," Mark returned the smile. "Small campus, eh?"

Napoleon slid off the bed to join the others for their dorm floor-based picnic. "So what type of bagel are we sharing?"

Illya reached into the bag and, as he placed the booty on the large plate April had set out for this purpose, said, "Two plain, two cinnamon raisins, two poppy seed, and one spicy squash thing that the lady at the shop insisted I take."

Napoleon chuckled. "Pumpkin spice, you mean."

"Yes. She said that if I were to live in the U.S., I would have to try a pumpkin spice something at some point." He wrinkled his nose at the orange monstrosity topping the pile of otherwise beautifully brown and beige bagels. "Feel free to take whichever you like, but feel especially free to spare me the honor of participating in this particular American tradition."

April ended up taking the pumpkin spice bagel mostly out of pity for the poor thing having been distastefully pushed around by the others, and the group proceeded with the university student-specific introductions. Napoleon, Mark, and April collectively expressed their shock at having just begun their final year of school and shared their respective double-majors with Illya: geography and philosophy, psychology and criminal justice, chemistry and communication. Illya mentioned through a mouthful of bagel-and-cheese sandwich that he was in the Graduate program, conducting research into artificial intelligence.

"I didn't know there were graduate students in the dorm," commented Napoleon, a bit taken aback that the baby-faced Russian could possibly be past his teen years.

"My parents are overprotective. As I am so far from them, they feel I can be looked after a bit in a dorm environment. Unnecessary, of course, but there is no harm in making them happy."

"Well, since you're stuck in a dorm, I hope you're getting on well with your roommate, at least," Mark said.

"I don't have a roommate."

April raised her eyebrows and said lightly, "Lucky bastard. How'd you manage that? Is it a grad student thing?"

"No, it is because I cannot sleep if there is someone I don't completely trust in the room. The last time I had a roommate, I became so underslept that I fainted on the way to class one day. I now have a doctor's note saying that I must have a room to myself lest I take another swan dive into a fountain."

The other guys made a sort of _oof!_ sound in sympathy as April offered, "You're obviously okay now, but I hope you weren't hurt too badly."

"A few stitches. I was in hospital for a week, but that was mostly monitoring for nonexistent concussion and making sure I slept. Doctors are rather finicky creatures."

Mark made another sympathetic noise, pondered for a moment, and said, "Seeing as you have your own room, if you're awake the next time Napoleon brings female company up here, can I hide out at yours until he's done?"

Napoleon looked uncharacteristically scandalized while April snickered and Illya solemnly welcomed Mark to the sanctuary of his dorm room at any time, provided he didn't have "do not disturb" chalked onto the board attached to his door. A moment later, Illya tapped his fingertips together a few times, commented that his hands were a bit sticky from the finger-food-based supper, and excused himself to wash his hands in the communal bathroom.

As soon as he was out the door, Napoleon fixed Mark with a scowl. "You're killing me here, Slate."

Mark's mouth worked wordlessly through a few expressions before managing, "Wha-at? I thought you appreciated when I help promote your, uh, particular set of skills."

"Well, normally, yes, but you're going to make him think I'm straight!"

"Aren't you? And why should you care if—oh." A sly smile slithered across his face. " _Ohhh_ …"

"'Oh', indeed." Napoleon's scowl deepened. "Stop leering, you Neanderthal, it's not my fault he was the prettiest girl in the room."

"Hey!" April protested. "He's cute, I'll grant you, but let's not go overboard." She picked off a corner of roast ham from her newly-constructed bagel sandwich and plastered it on Napoleon's nose. "I was in the room too, you know."

"Never mind him, April," Mark smirked as Napoleon peeled off the deli meat and popped it in his gob. "He can't help it if—Napoleon and Illya, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—"

"You lot do enjoy your campfire singalongs."

The lot jerked their collection of eyes around to stare at the door.

"That is what you called it, I believe," he added to Mark before reclaiming his pillow on the floor. "Do all the singalongs involve spelling? It seems like a good educational opportunity for children and learners of foreign languages."

Napoleon wondered if anybody else felt like punching themselves in the face, realized that everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time, and determined that he was the only one with a self-punching impulse at this juncture. "It's really not that educational—" Napoleon smiled at Illya and spared a sharp look at his alleged friends. "—considering there's only one word that's spelled."

Mark's smirk widened. "I beg to differ, Polo. We could always change it to 'sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I—'"

April slapped his leg, making Napoleon wonder what she had planned for later if she was willing to save him some embarrassment now.

Illya glanced around expressionlessly, eventually settling on Napoleon, who couldn't help noticing the flush starting on the Russian's neck. "Am I to take it that you feel toward me the emotion you have erroneously been attributing to Romance languages?"

April helpfully supplied, "Either that or—" She winked, then clicked her tongue a couple of times while making a lewd gesture.

Illya's features remained stoic even as the flush crept up to his face, and Napoleon declared, "Miss Dancer, I do believe you've been skipping out on your lady lessons of late."

"Maybe I wouldn't if you hadn't let slip to my parents that I flunked my history final last semester. You know, the 'huge fucking slap in the face' incident before I could break it to them gently?"

The pair glared at each other, but the severe expressions soon softened. Napoleon caved first: "I should've been more careful. I'm sorry, April."

"Good. I am too." She looked back to their distinctly pink guest. "I was being an idiot, Illya. Don't hold that against Napoleon. He really is a nice guy when he isn't running his mouth off."

Napoleon quirked a hopeful smile, which only resulted in Illya turning redder. The Russian did eventually manage to murmur, "I suppose it's flattering. You _were_ flirting with me in class earlier, then?"

Napoleon shot a triumphant look at April, feeling rather vindicated in not having been quite as obvious as she had suggested. He quickly deflated, however, since it might not have been the most promising sign for _all_ his efforts to have gone unnoticed. All this was (he hoped) covered by an outward grin and a nod, then ruined since he couldn't quite keep the nerves out of his voice when he spoke again.

"Would, uh… would you like to grab a coffee before class tomorrow? It can just be as friends if you're not interested in anything more than that."

Mark and April raised their eyebrows at the less than suave delivery.

"I have an early class. Unless you are sociable enough for both of us at six in the morning…"

Mark and April looked curiously at the rosy-eared blond. It hadn't been a no. They turned their heads to Napoleon as he made his counteroffer.

"Dinner, maybe? Again, date or not-date, whichever you prefer."

Illya glanced at Mark and April, who accordingly turned their attention to their respective suppers and muttered quick conversation between themselves to offer some semblance of privacy without going so far as actually leaving the room.

Because leaving the room would mean they would miss this rather interesting situation.

Not that they'd paying attention or anything, because that would be intrusive.

Illya pretended the others weren't paying attention as he looked back to Napoleon and nodded.

"Date or not?" Napoleon pressed quietly. "Not to be a nudge, but I want to know whether flirting would be appropriate."

"Seeing as I am an adult and ought to obtain some life experiences, I suppose we can try a date."

"I had a feeling you were a romantic at heart."

"But…"

"But what?"

"I do not know how to flirt."

"You don't have to. Just be yourself."

Illya frowned. "Then what are you getting out of it?"

"Your company."

"Having myself as your company would not be many people's idea of a good time."

"Their loss."

Illya thought for a moment. "I have never been on a date, I am a poor conversationalist, I am rude, and, if the food is good, I shall pay more attention to it than to you." He nodded. "I believe those are the faults that would be the most glaring in a dating scenario."

Napoleon grinned. "And what positive traits do you think would be the strongest in a dating scenario?"

"Oh." Back to pondering. "I suppose it would be highly unlikely that I shall endeavor to murder you over the course of the date."

"Well, I'm sold. Can you be ready by seven in the evening?"

"Yes, but perhaps we could make it earlier. I have an early class and would like to be in bed by a reasonable hour."

"Five, then?"

"That is fine."

"Dress nice. You don't have to wear a tie, but dress pants and a jacket would be good. It doesn't have to be a dress shirt, but preferably something that can be tucked into the pants."

"And by 'pants' you mean 'trousers', correct?" The Russian noted that the humor of this distinction was not lost on Slate, who coughed loudly before returning to definitely-not-listening-in-on-the-date-planning.

"Correct."

Illya wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Thank you for sharing your dinner with me. You can keep the rest of the bagels. Well." He peered at the designated bagel platter and its sole survivor. "You can keep the bagel. Good night."

The remaining party barely had time to return the nicety before Illya rose, turned, and exited the room in one continuous movement. Napoleon broke into a wider smile at the demonstration of gracefulness and April swatted him with a pillow.

"What's that for?"

"At least go on the date before you start thinking dirty, pervert."

Napoleon grabbed the pillow to ensure it would not be weaponized again and affected what he determined was an appropriately offended expression. "I was not thinking dirty, Miss Dancer, but even if I was, he's a grown man. I think he can handle thoughts, especially the ones he isn't aware of."

April looked skeptical. "If he barely noticed you were flirting earlier, and if he was blushing that hard just now, and especially if he's really never been on a date—"

"I am capable of keeping it in my pants, thank you. It's just a date, April." Napoleon let his faux indignation slip, in light of his friend's concern for their new acquaintance. "If it makes you feel any better, I promise to restrict myself to outrageous flirting and maybe hand-holding. I'll show him a good time with the early-bird specials and get him home in one piece and fully dressed."

April still seemed to have some misgivings—just because one returned home fully dressed didn't mean that one's clothes had not been disturbed at some earlier time—but Mark smirked, "Seems you're in for a grand old time, Polo. Really, April, the guy's so formal, I see no possible way he'd be letting Don Juan Solo have his way with 'im." He turned back to the Casanova in question. "How d'you feel about being Dr. Kuryakin's test subject in the field of dating?"

"Well, it's research for me, too," Napoleon countered. "If it turns out I enjoy going out with a guy, that opens up a whole new dating pool."

Dancer sighed. "It would be so disappointing, though. I couldn't call you a skirt-chaser anymore, could I?"

"Dating men wouldn't mean I'd give up the ladies," Napoleon reassured her.

"Besides," Mark added, "some guys wear skirts. Free your minds, folks."

* * *

"Hubba, hubba."

"I am not familiar with that expression."

"It means you look good."

Illya stepped into the hallway, shut and locked his dorm room door, and looked Napoleon up and down quickly before returning, "In that case, 'hubba, hubba'." Solo chuckled at the blond's deadpan delivery and offered his arm, to which Kuryakin responded, "If you begin treating me as you would treat one of the girls you date, I might have to punch you to overcompensate for the emasculation."

Napoleon had some doubts as to how much damage his slim companion could inflict, but none as to the sincerity of the threat. He put away the offending appendage, said that their destination was in walking distance, and they walked the first half of that distance mostly in silence, until Solo decided that waiting for his date to set the conversational pace was not an effective strategy.

At least, not if he wanted the pace to be somewhere on the zippier side of "glacial".

Hence, he started off with the innocuous topic of school—Illya's nerdy side would presumably appreciate that—and prattled on about his courses this semester until Kuryakin's occasional comments became frequent enough that he dared to ask after the man's academic endeavors.

The remaining five minutes of walking were dominated by such a remarkable collection of incomprehensible phrases that Napoleon was left with the distinct impression that the intention was to put him off. He especially got that impression when his sincerely-delivered expression of interest was met with a face that looked darn near peeved, but their arrival meant that he was saved from a detailed explanation of what the living hell a hidden Markov model was. Markov was probably better left hidden.

"Et voila, we have arrived."

Illya peered at the designated building. "Is this not a bit excessive? There must be cheaper places to eat."

"Of course there are. What's your point?"

"I doubt if I can afford this place, and I certainly will not let you—"

"Now, now," Napoleon chided lightly, "no fussing. If the money is what's worrying you, I'll have you know I've got a very generous uncle. So long as I perform well in school, he covers my living expenses with a metaphorical smile."

"Only metaphorical?"

"Well, he tends to be rather stoic, but he says play can be just as important as work, so who am I to argue?"

Illya sighed. "Very well. Let's play."

Napoleon opened the door and turned to make a sweeping gesture, then recalled Illya's earlier promise of a punch and stopped mid-gesture. He let himself in first, holding the door open behind him to let Illya follow.

The maître d' offered, "Good evening, Mr. Solo."

A blond eyebrow quirked in Napoleon's direction. "Ah, so you frequently spend unnecessary amounts of money on food."

"The better to get reservations on short notice, my dear." As Illya bristled at the endearment despite its sarcastic intent, Napoleon said, "Good evening, Paul. Mr. Kuryakin, may I present the world's preeminent maître d'hôtel, Paul Chen."

Paul nodded politely. "Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin."

"We're right on time, I hope?"

"As always, sir. Unfortunately, your usual table was not available on short notice, but we have another quiet little corner that should suffice." He led them up a narrow spiral staircase, into a large room broken up by bookcases among which tables were nestled, and stopped at a table set for two in a corner behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Once they were seated, he snapped his fingers and a server swept by briefly to fill their glasses with water as Paul handed each diner a menu and a promise to return soon.

As the maître d' and server departed, Napoleon asked, "Shall I order us some wine?"

"Due to your country's puritanical mores, I am unfortunately not permitted to imbibe."

Napoleon looked up from the wine list. "What?"

"How unhelpfully vague. Are you surprised by my age, the drinking age, or your country's history with and patriarchal views of alcohol?"

"Illya, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Napoleon sighed. "Well, at least you're an adult. Don't scare me like that!"

"If you have a habit of being frightened by people's ages, I would suggest you make inquiries before the date begins."

"You told me you're doing graduate studies," Napoleon offered in his own defense. "Any reasonable person would assume that implies you are at least in your twenties."

"Ah, so it is my fault. I apologize, but I do not feel terribly bad about it. Given that our collective assumptions about age do not seem to have been accurate thus far, might I ask how old you are?"

"Twenty-five. I joined the Army right out of high school, so I ended up starting college late."

Illya nodded. "In that case, you can order wine for yourself if you'd like. I shall refrain in the interest of not providing any motivation for my getting deported."

"If you wanted to sneak a sip from my glass, you can go ahead. Life's short: live a little."

"Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend."

Napoleon chuckled. "Illya Kuryakin: inimitable assassin of moods."

"Omar Kayyam, actually. And enlighten me as to what mood it is that I killed, exactly."

"Something a bit lighter than contemplation of our inescapable mortality, I hope."

"Very well then. I had thought quoting poetry would be appropriate for a date. Perhaps you can provide some tips."

"Poetry is great. Just maybe go for something a little less jaws-of-death and a little more summer's-day."

"Shakespeare would be appropriate, then."

"Yes, but don't feel like you have to. Not everybody's the poetry-reciting type."

"Nonetheless, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Surely I can manage to recall something poetic for mine."

Napoleon grinned. "And what is your purpose?"

"Dating correctly."

Now he laughed. "Illya, the point of dating is to have a good time! If you're worried about 'doing it right', you're probably doing it wrong."

"Ah, so I should not concern myself with being at least moderately polite, and it is perfectly acceptable to ignore you the whole time."

"Well, no…"

"And I should not have complied with your request that I dress nicely."

"No—I mean yes—"

"Dispute not with me, for I am a lunatic. Perhaps I should, as they say, cut my losses."

Napoleon put a hand over Illya's as he moved to get up. Kuryakin jerked his own hand back but stopped his retreat as the American Shakespeare'd back, "Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. Therefore, you must stay so I can keep an eye on you."

Illya settled and took a look around at the bookshelves. "Very well. I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it." A smile came perilously close to sneaking through.

Napoleon leaned back with a smile. "Clearly, you and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Shall we engage in a duel of Shakespearean quotes all night?"

"Perhaps not. I would challenge you with such a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed."

"Well, don't hold back. Speak what you feel, not what you ought to say."

"I am not bound to please you with my answers."

Napoleon sighed and looked to the ceiling. "God hath given you one face and you make yourself another. How can someone with your baby face be so determined to tap dance with barbed-wire shoes on my weary soul?"

"Are you saying that men should be what they seem?"

"Well, if we are true to ourselves, we cannot be false to anyone. Are you being yourself, my purple-hued maltworm?"

"Indeed. You have a knack for putting one at his ease." Illya bowed his head. "I concede the battle. Shakespeare is yours. Getting me to relax is no small feat."

"I hadn't noticed."

Seeing an opening, it was at this moment that Paul returned and asked if they cared for something besides water to drink. Illya declined and Napoleon followed suit to be polite. Paul asked if they had had a chance to look over the menu and Napoleon almost said no, but Illya caught sight of the Chinese flag pin beneath the maître d's nametag.

"Ni shuo hanyu ma?"

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Dui le." He flipped open his notepad. "Nin yao shenme?"

From there out, the words seemed to run together and Napoleon gave up on trying to distinguish one from another. It appeared to be quite a discussion, with Illya occasionally pointing at something on the menu and Paul pointing out something else. After the heat of the debate was past, Illya slowed down his speech again and apparently turned his levels of dry wit to the max, if Paul's mirthful responses and occasional chuckles were any indication.

"Nin tai hao le, xiansheng tai hao le," Paul laughed, scribbling onto his notepad. He turned to Napoleon, laughter gone and replaced by his normal courteous smile. "And for you, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon shook his head ruefully. "Goodness, Paul, it seems I've been speaking the wrong language with my friend here."

"It is never the wrong language if it is mutually comprehensible," Paul countered. "If you ever do care to learn Mandarin, however, speaking it with Mr. Kuryakin would certainly be a treat for you." He twirled his pen in his fingers once to draw attention back to the matter of ordering food. Napoleon ordered his usual dish and Paul withdrew from the table.

"Perhaps my unfortunate state of being a lowly plebeian is coming to the fore here," Illya commented, "but I was under the impression that taking orders was the work of a server, and beneath the dignity of a maître d'."

"Most of the staff here just happen to know that I am an excellent tipper. And they further happen to know that I like Paul and, seeing as all tips are split amongst the wait staff…"

Illyas lip curled slightly. "Ah, so money can do it all. Typical capitalistic thinking."

"Au contraire, mon chou. Money can't buy me love."

"I suppose it depends on what sort of love it is you are looking for."

"True. In any case, not to burst your anti-capitalist bubble, bud, but your Russian economy isn't entirely sitting on a socialistic basis there."

"Because I am Russian you assume I am a socialist?"

"You weren't sounding especially fond of capitalism."

"I am not. On the other hand, Russia's attempts at socialism or some shoddy representation thereof have been… let us say, _disappointing_."

Napoleon bit his tongue (literally and for several seconds) before saying, "Here's another tidbit of dating advice: politics is generally not first date material."

"Yes, I have heard there are three things to never discuss: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin."

Napoleon grinned. "You know _Peanuts_?"

"Of course, Napoleon. I am Russian, not Venusian. Did you know that Charles Schulz based the Great Pumpkin on an old Russian folktale?"

"Color me intrigued."

"It is the myth of the despotic Kubla Kraus and his reign of tyranny over the Pumpkin Peasants…"

"Please, Mr. Kuryakin, you are not the only one with a working knowledge of holiday television." He smirked. " _Jack Frost_ , 1979. From October through December, my mother practically lived to dig up as many cartoons and funky stop-motion shows as she could find. I suppose this is my 'idiot American' revealing itself, but I didn't realize they'd managed to grace Russian screens, as well."

Illya shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I saw them while I was in England. My advisor for a couple of years was an American professor. As I was a foreign student, alone and not able to return home more than once a year, she took pity on me. She set up a screening of holiday specials, open to all students, and invited me to attend specifically. When I did not, she asked me to be her 'technical assistant'—really, just putting in the DVD and adjusting the volume occasionally—and I attended her screenings every week in the last months of the year for two years."

"You poor thing. Such suffering, when you could have been doing something productive."

"Yes, it was rather a trial."

"I was being sarcastic."

"As was I."

Napoleon smiled and leaned in. "Out of idle curiosity… did you agree to a date merely to have had at least one experience in the field, or do you find me not completely repulsive?"

"It could be both or neither. If I were desperate to have an 'experience', I would put up with you even if I found you repulsive. If I found you not completely repulsive, I would not necessarily feel compelled to date you."

"Out of all those words, none answered my question."

"Fishing for compliments is quite unbecoming of a man with a mental capacity such as yours. Are you so insecure that you require me to remind you of your cleverness and good looks?"

A smile slipped to Solo's mouth and he chuckled to himself, "Slap-slap-kiss, eh?"

Illya's ears grew pink. "Pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing." He propped his chin in his hand. "Can't give a compliment without it being wrapped in an insult, can you?"

"Unfortunately, your options are the compliment wrapped in an insult, or an insult wrapped in an insult. I apologize if I did not make my irretrievable propensity for discourtesy clear upfront."

Napoleon shook his head cheerfully. "Not at all. It's part of your charm."

"In what way is despicability charming?"

"You're not despicable. It's just that the nice thoughts on the inside can't make it past those lovely lips without being generously coated in sarcasm."

"If you suggest using your tongue to extricate those nice feelings, I will have be forced to disembowel you, tie knots in your intestines, and then replace them from whence they came."

"Sweet talker."

* * *

April barely looked up from the laptop she was clicking away at as Napoleon entered a small office cramped with three desks in varying states of disarray, three chairs, and several filing cabinets. "Back from your hot date with blondie already? Did your zipper get stuck?"

Napoleon managed an aggrieved expression. "Not all my dates end up with a roll in the hay, Miss Dancer. I saw him safely home like a perfect gentleman." He dropped into the chair at his desk (the one in the most advanced state of disarray) and broke out a grin. "I think he likes me."

Now this got the lady's attention. She tilted her screen forward a bit to allow herself a better view of her officemate. "Good lord, you look positively goofy!"

An effort to rein in the allegedly goofy smile was only partly successful. "Well, excuse you. I had to recite about half the complete works of Shakespeare to get his attention, so I should think I deserve to bask in the, ah… _afterglow_."

April harrumphed. "You're still goofy, but whatever. Bask away." She readjusted the screen. "I have paperwork to do."

"Bludhaven affair all done?"

"Yeah. Next time you have to shadow someone on a mission, Agent Grayson's a good one. Lets you do a thing or two instead of treating you like dead weight. Highly recommend."

"Duly noted." The last vestiges of his smile faded as he swiveled to the obscenely large stack of papers piled on his desk. He made a dent of about two millimeters before standing up.

April chuckled without taking her eyes off her own work. "It wouldn't be so bad if you got it done as it came in."

"It's not that," Napoleon retorted dishonestly. "There's something I wanted to look for in Records."

"A dewy-eyed young lady willing to do your work for you?"

"Shall I bring one back for you, too?"

Dancer poked her tongue out at him and Solo returned the favor, then turned and headed out of the office.

He arrived in the Records department on the floor above the offices in short order, entering the large room with its overabundance of filing cabinets and offering a warm greeting to the poor sucker charged with its care for the night. The post of Glorified File Gofer was the doghouse of the Intelligence section, with the job being assigned based on how much one had annoyed one's fellow researchers of late or (as seemed to be the case this time) based on how low down you happened to be in the department's pecking order.

"Hello, Napoleon," the dewy-eyed young lady offered, managing a wan smile in return. "Can I help you find something?"

Knowing that the rest of her night would likely be dominated by thumb-twiddling, Napoleon magnanimously opted to give her a thrill, even though he was perfectly capable of puttering around with files himself. "As a matter of fact, Ellie, you can. I was wondering if we had anything on Kuryakin-comma-Illya."

"C, K, or Q?"

"K-U-R-Y," Napoleon prompted, and Ellie spun on her heel to head directly for the appropriate section. "Why everything isn't digitized by now is beyond me," he lamented, shaking his head as he sauntered after her.

"Some of the other departments have been in the process for years now," Ellie replied, pulling open a drawer. "They've been reluctant to start on our stuff, though. After all, the only way to hack into these things is by busting in here in person." She patted a filing cabinet. "Considering the sad state of our Computer division, I think we all feel safer by indulging our inner luddites."

Napoleon pouted a moment and thoughtfully nodded. He managed not to flinch too badly as she slammed the drawer shut, rattling the entire wall of metal cabinets in the process.

"Nothing in Tier 1. Want me to check Tier 2?"

"I hate to be a bother, but if you haven't anything more pressing to attend to…"

Ellie cast a withering look in his direction. They both knew darn well she hadn't, and that circumstance was enough to wick the dew from her wide green eyes.

He smiled disarmingly. "Please."

She flashed a tight smile back before leading the way from the openly-available Tier 1 collection to the Tier 2 collection, which required the low-level security clearance afforded to most of the employees. Tier 3 would be beyond Solo's purview until he was a full-fledged agent, Tier 4 was accessible to upper-level agents, and Tier 5 was the stuff that only Old Man Waverly himself had access to.

In the Tier 2 room, as soon as the automatic door had shut behind them and closed off the Tier 1 section, Ellie marched to the relevant cabinet and rifled through a couple of drawers' worth of files. Three wall-rattling clangs later, Ellie leaned back against the cabinets and folded her arms, announcing, "Nothing. I think Crane's still in if you wanted to get permission to put in a request."

Napoleon thanked her and departed the suite of Records rooms, going straight to the Chief Enforcement Agent who, by no fault of her own, had been charged with overseeing the trainees from U.N.C.L.E.'s most recent round of recruitment. Of the ten people who'd started last year, only Dancer, Slate, and Solo had thus far survived Crane's scrutiny. Solo had been informed in no uncertain terms and on several occasions that he was only holding on by the skin of his teeth, but the trio of trainees agreed that it was probably his attitude more than his aptitude that kept him out of their mentor's good graces.

Thus, Napoleon slipped into his best behavior as he rapped at Agent Crane's office door.

"Enter."

Napoleon entered.

"What is it, Solo?"

"I had a gander at some of files in Records…"

"You are well aware that I do not care for idle chatter."

"Yes, Ms. Crane. The point is that I was looking for one person in particular—Illya Kuryakin—and we don't seem to have a file on him."

"And?"

"And… if he isn't a genius, he sure does a good impression of one. Seems like the kind of guy who could make some good contributions to the world. Or bad contributions."

"Genius in what way? We're not currently in need of a musical prodigy." Before he could clarify, she surged on with, "Also, are you suggesting that he might tend toward the dark side, or that his talents could potentially work for people of either side of the moral coin?"

"We know each other socially so I didn't want to do a full interrogation. He's eighteen and pursuing a doctorate in artificial intelligence. He seems like a good guy, but computer stuff does obviously have the potential for nefarious applications."

"Alright, you may put in a request for information."

"Thank you."

"Dismissed."

"Yes'm."

Crane looked up with narrowed eyes that thoroughly expressed her incredulity at his having ever survived the Army.

"Yes, ma'am," he corrected himself. Sometimes he was incredulous at himself, but he chalked up his present discipline issues to having difficulty in figuring out where exactly U.N.C.L.E. stood on the spectrum from "civilian casual" to "full military". He personally tended to end up flailing uncertainly somewhere in the middle, and it certainly didn't help that the CEA refused to clarify matters ("You want to be a spy? Figure it out, Solo.").

Crane nodded curtly and went back to ignoring the world at large. Solo retreated rather quickly and went back to his disturbingly high stack of paperwork for another hour before calling it a night and heading back to the dorms with April, seeing her to her third-floor room to prove that he really was a gentleman.

"It's easy to keep your hands to yourself when I'm practically your sister," she'd retorted.

He arrived at his and Mark's fifth-floor quarters soon after, and Slate promptly greeted him with, "How's office life without the life of the party, hey, Polo?"

"Delightfully quiet," Napoleon countered. If Solo and Dancer were practically siblings, Slate and Dancer were practically twins. Since they weren't actually twins, the "twin telepathy" deal hadn't quite gone through, so they simply chattered away merrily, annoying Napoleon by managing to somehow get twice as much work done as he did in spite their virtually nonstop banter.

"Oh? Get much done, then?"

Napoleon estimated the amount he'd gotten done by holding up a thumb and index finger about half an inch apart. "About yay much."

Mark looked up from his homework-covered desk long enough to observe the estimate and offered, "Bravo, sir. It don't bode well for the rest of the semester that I'm already working my way up to the amount of stuff you've got on your plate at work."

"Tough break that your class schedule didn't pan out," Solo commented, tossing himself back onto his bed.

"I know. Wednesday and Friday, I'll be lonesome at the office, and Tuesday and Thursday, you get to hang with April, you lucky bastard."

"Ah, yes, plenty of quality time together, sloughing through paperwork. Maybe if we're really lucky, though, the three of us could get assigned something together in the field."

"I dunno if having three noobs on a single assignment is at the top of Crane's to-do list, but it would be pretty grand. Oh!"

Napoleon raised an eyebrow as Mark twisted around in his chair.

"Fine mate I am—almost forgot to ask about your tête-à-tête with your science experiment."

Napoleon grinned. "It required at least ninety percent of the material contained in my tête, but I think it went well."

"Must've done. Never seen you looking that goofy over a single date."

A scowl. "I am not goofy-looking!"

A snort. "April texted me that saying that'd get your goat."

Solo relaxed a bit.

"Of course, it also happens to be true."

He glared briefly, but the look faded quickly. "It isn't weird, is it?"

"What isn't weird, is it? That you like someone for their brain instead of just their body?"

"No—"

"That you like a guy?"

"No—"

"That you—"

"Going out on a limb, here: _no_."

Slate harrumphed and turned back to his homework. As he started scribbling on things, he asked, "What, then?"

"A couple of things, actually. First… he's eighteen."

"Well, ideally, everyone's eighteen at some point in their life."

"But I'm twenty-five. And if you round it up, I'm thirty years old and dating a teenager."

"If you're rounding you up, you might as well round him up." Pause. "That sounded wrong. What I mean is, if you're rounding your age to thirty, you might as well round his to twenty. Saves you from the creepy-adult-dating-a-teen scenario."

"It _is_ creepy, then?"

"Didn't say that. You're both adults. For once, you managed to have a good time on a date with a minimum of canoodling, right?"

Napoleon affected a wounded expression that the back of Mark's head failed to appreciate. "Yes."

"Then you're also saved from being a lecher after a younger man's body. As I said: two adults. Less than ten years' difference. I don't see a problem." Another pause. "Which is not to say I'd want you dating my eighteen-year-old sister…"

"Double standards much, Slate?"

"What's the second of the couple of potentially-weird things?" Slate parried.

"I'm going to put in an information request on him."

"Motive?"

"He's a computer nerd and the Computers section could use some more of those."

"Not weird."

"I could be subconsciously wanting to stalk him like a creepy boyfriend, even if I'm not technically his boyfriend."

"If you wanted to do that, you'd be Facebook-stalking him or Twitter-stalking him or Instagram-stalking him… you're not creepy enough to jump straight to using a hardcore research department to do your evil bidding, mate."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Later that night, sometime after Mark had (in typical Mark fashion) fallen asleep over his homework, Napoleon took out his communicator and hooked it over his ear. The device resembled nothing so much as a normal cellphone headset, but it operated with radio waves just like the decommissioned cigarette case-based communicators. "Open Channel S."

A raspy voice responded. _"Channel S open, babe."_

"Solo here."

 _"I know. Y'think I call just anybody 'babe'?"_

"I wouldn't presume to know, Gerry my sweet."

 _"You got something for me to do, kid, or are you just desperate to flirt with someone 'cause the girls weren't biting today?"_

"Tell me, Ger, are you a boy or a girl?" After a split second of consideration, he added, "Or both or neither?"

 _"I'm a disembodied voice patiently waiting for you to get to the point, doll. Under the bold presumption that there is a point to which we might be able to get."_

"Can you get Intelligence to put together a file on one Illya Kuryakin?"

 _"Sure. Any old one or is there a specific one you'd prefer?"_

"Illya Kuryakin, male, age eighteen, of Russian origin, grad student in the computer science department at my university. Studied at an English university at some point but I don't know which one or when. Blond hair, blue eyes, about five-seven."

 _"Alrighty-dighty, daddy-o. Anything else?"_

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I thought we had something together, Gerry."

The communicator barked a wheezy laugh into Napoleon's ear. _"I'm just, like, floored that you have thoughts. Y'know I love you, hon, but I'm in a committed relationship with a filing cabinet and shorty ain't playing around today."_

"Ah, sweet Gerry pie," Napoleon sighed heavily, "someday I'll take you away from all that. Let me know when you hear back on this."

 _"You got it, bubby."_

* * *

 _What the hell was that?_

For a person widely recognized as being above average in the intelligence arena, Illya Kuryakin was having a hell of a time comprehending just _what the hell that was_.

It had been nearly four hours since Napoleon Solo had walked him back to his room, and most of that time had been spent sprawled in various positions across his bed, staring at the ceiling, the wall, another wall, the door, the desk…. As he locked a steely gaze on the corkboard by the door, it occurred to him that none of these inanimate objects was about to be particularly forthcoming in explaining how the evening had spiraled so badly out of his control. He closed his eyes.

What had gone right? He'd managed to avoid revealing his dietary restrictions to his date by using Mandarin when making his order. The only especially personal thing he'd shared was, as planned, the little story about watching Christmas movies in England.

What had gone wrong? Using technical jargon in describing his research hadn't proved the least bit off-putting. His concerted efforts toward romantic incompetence only resulted in Napoleon reeling him in with an impressive collection of Shakespearean quotes. He somehow ended up complimenting Solo and, even though he'd couched things in the least flattering manner possible, Solo still had the nerve to seem flattered. And, most damning of all, he blushed.

Illya Kuryakin did not blush.

He made it a point to not blush.

And yet, two evenings in a row, that insufferable American had made him turn red.

It had seemed simple enough: take advantage of his first-ever invitation to go out, and use the opportunity to prove that he could maintain his habitual indifference on a date, just as he did in every other scenario. Except he felt his face reddening at the mere recollection of Solo's request for a good-night kiss ("You'll not do that if you enjoy the current topography of your mouth.") and the handshake Kuryakin had offered as a replacement.

And the red burned warmer as he recalled how the handshake had resulted in Napoleon sneaking a quick press of lips to his knuckles.

All in all, Illya considered the date a complete failure.

He'd thoroughly enjoyed himself.


	2. Act II: Mark Twain

A/N: Dude, you made it to the second chapter! (throws a party) Your readership is super appreciated, :)

This chapter (which is almost twice as long as the last one—whoops) includes a guest appearance by a couple of characters from another show, but their part is small and it won't hurt anything if you aren't familiar with them. I'll say who the "guests" were at the end, to avoid spoilers if you do recognize them.

Finally, not sure if this needs a **trigger warning** , but there is a somewhat detailed description of a panic attack somewhere in this chapter.

* * *

Act II:

"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries of life disappear and life stands explained."

 _October_

Sometimes April didn't know which way was up.

Ten years ago, when she learned that the man she'd always called Dad was actually her stepfather, and that her biological father had been killed in a car accident before she was born.

Four years ago, when she was approached by U.N.C.L.E., had a grand old laugh at the idea of the dinosaur of an organization wanting _her_ ("Didn't you guys go out with the watusi?"), and was informed by her significantly less amused mother that the long-ago car "accident" had been a murder designed to take out a particularly pesky U.N.C.L.E. agent.

And then there was now, when her good friend Napoleon Solo was about to kick off his second month of being in a monogamous relationship.

First of all, it was weird that she was friends with Napoleon at all, considering their first meeting had involved him hitting on her before Intermediate Spanish during her junior year. Once she'd shot a second annoyed look in his direction, however, he'd shut off the flow of chat-up lines and, after class, offered an apology.

Second of all, about two weeks into that first semester of her third year of university, she'd learned that Solo was a fellow U.N.C.L.E. recruit and still very into just generally flirting with anything vaguely feminine, except for April ("Strictly friendzone, Miss Dancer, never fear.") and their mentor, Chief Enforcement Agent Elinor Crane.

Over the course of days and weeks and months, she'd never known Napoleon to go on more than two dates with the same girl, and he never talked much about any individual young lady or even seemed enamored of one for more time than it took for him to annoy his roommate by claiming the shared room for "a little privacy, if you please, Mark." He never set out to hurt anyone's feelings (it seemed he was fairly skilled at figuring out who shared his propensity for short-term planning), but the most stable relationships he had were with his parents (whom he visited once a month, when he could) and his friends (April and another U.N.C.L.E. recruit: Mark Slate, of "a little privacy" fame).

And then there was a boy.

A young man who was currently seated not far from her. Dancer, Solo, Slate, and Kuryakin were gathered round a table in the library: Dancer at the end of the long side of an L-shaped couch, Kuryakin on the long side near the corner, and Solo at the short side, with Slate occupying a loveseat across from Dancer. She and Slate were working on a project together while Solo ostensibly was reading a book for class but was primarily occupied with trying to distract his boyfriend with winks and accidental-on-purpose brushes of hands and totally-on-purpose playing with blond hair.

Kuryakin seemed to be doing the labor of several people: he occasionally typed at his laptop with his left hand, referred to an open book by his right, glared at Solo for his distracting endeavors, and took notes in a pad perched on his lap. It was an odd strategy he had for note-taking, however, as he continually rotated the notebook so he could write in circular formations. Eventually, a smiley-face of notes appeared on the pad, and April almost had to stab herself with a pencil to keep from squealing in delight when the expressionless young man held up the notepad for Napoleon to see.

"Well, that'll be it. See you lads later. Come along, April."

April looked up to see that Mark had at some point gathered up all his study materials and was preparing to depart. She'd have taken issue with being told to "come along" but her study buddy was beating such a brisk retreat that he was already out of ear-chewing-off range, so she offered a startled Solo and an indifferent Kuryakin a quick farewell and followed Slate out of the building.

As soon as she caught up with him, she very reasonably demanded, "What the hell, Slate?"

"And the same to you, Dancer. Not that I'm the jealous type, but you seemed to pay more attention to the other boys than to yours truly. It hurt me." He pulled a face that was somewhere between tragedy and indigestion. "In the heart."

April had the emotional capacity to actually look embarrassed at this revelation. "I didn't realize I was that distracted. Sorry. It's just… isn't it weird?"

Mark sighed to himself. People seemed to have a habit of demanding his thoughts on some nebulous thing called _it_ and not having the good grace to tell him what _it_ was that they were talking about. "Isn't what weird, mate?"

"Not weird in a bad way but… it's Napoleon we're talking about here. Sure he still flirts with girls and everything, but he's been in a monogamous relationship with a guy for almost a whole month. In Solo Time, they've been married for five years and are preparing to adopt their third child."

Mark nodded. "True that. They've also not slept together."

April frowned. "How do you know? Illya seems kind of shy, so maybe Napoleon's just magically learned how to be super discreet about it."

Mark shook his head. "Polo mentioned that the most skin he's seen was that one day when it was disgustingly hot and Illya rolled up his sleeves a bit. And he was practically off the walls when I came back to our room last night, so I forced him to tell me what the hell was wrong with him. Turns out the blond iceberg let Polo kiss him goodnight."

"And if he was that over the moon about it…"

"…must've been the first time," Slate concluded.

Dancer growled. "Dammit, Slate, they're so cute it makes me want to punch something."

Slate casually stepped out of punching range.

* * *

"Mr. Del Floria, this is my dear friend Illya, freshly robbed from the cradle."

Illya fixed his significant other with a glare. "I am an adult, thank you." He lightened his expression and bowed slightly as he greeted the tailor.

"Mr. Solo must have taken a real shine to you," the older man said with amused eyes. "He's only ever here for a few minutes at a time, but he always manages to make time to rave about you."

Illya raised his eyebrows and Napoleon tugged at his shirt collar, objecting, "Well, now, I wouldn't call it raving, per se." Asking Illya to come along on a few errands (a few groceries, pick up a suit…) after their lunch date was clearly right up there with the worst decisions he'd made in recent history.

The twinkle in the tailor's eyes only grew as he reminisced over his client's words. "There's an irresistible blond in Spanish… his name is Illya… Illya is a genius, Illya has the driest wit on the East Coast, Illya this, Illya that, Illya was an absolute cinnamon roll today—"

Napoleon cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Del Floria. Is my suit ready to provide an excuse for me to get out of here as expeditiously as possible?"

With a chuckle, Del Floria handed a bagged suit on a hanger across the counter.

"Thank you. I shall now flee in abject humiliation. Shall we, Illya?" Napoleon hooked his suit over one shoulder and used his free arm to drape around Illya's shoulders, offering no opportunity for debate, and kept his arm around the younger man as they headed out. They had only walked a few feet when the blond slowed his gait, and the expression on his face prompted Napoleon to steer him out of oncoming foot traffic and settle the both of them near the exterior wall of a building near the tailor shop. "What's the matter?"

"I… sometimes it just sinks in. Even though you did not explicitly tell Mr. Del Floria, it was very much implied." Illya hesitated before continuing. "This is what I am."

"Clarify that for me."

Illya's already soft voice became quieter still as he gazed blankly past Napoleon's head. "A homosexual."

Napoleon tried to meet his gaze, but the blue eyes shifted restlessly anytime brown ones came close. He wondered how long Illya had been struggling with his orientation. Years? During the month they'd been together? When Solo made suggestive comments in public? The American wasn't used to dealing with tough emotional issues in a relationship but he wasn't blind, so he could only assume that Illya had previously been quite successful in keeping his inner turmoil—well—inside.

"Look at me. Look at me, Illya." The blond complied with the second, more sharply-spoken order and they locked eyes as Napoleon went on. "Look only at me and listen. You are not a what. You are a who. You are a person: an intelligent, clever, handsome young man. You are funny and thoughtful even if you pretend you aren't and you just happen to have an extremely hot boyfriend."

Illya snorted despite himself. "I can't tell if that little speech was for my benefit or yours."

"It made you smile."

"You aren't looking at my mouth for one thing. And for another thing, even if you were, you would not be seeing a smile."

"Your eyes are smiling."

"Now you are being ridiculous."

"Is my ridiculousness at all helpful to you?"

Illya thought for a moment. "A bit, I suppose."

"Good. I'll be ridiculous whenever you need me to, but I just want to say something less ridiculous because I think you need to hear it."

Illya's eyes started shifting a bit.

"Only at me, Illya."

The eyes returned.

"There is nothing wrong with you. You're a man of science. You of all people can appreciate that matters of the heart are actually matters of the head and that they are more nature than nurture. Biology. Chemistry. It's not a deviation of the mind. It is part of who you are but it does not define who you are. And, in case I wasn't clear enough about that, you are incredible."

"And a cinnamon roll."

"And a cinnamon roll." Napoleon grinned. "Do you know what that means?"

"It is a sweet pastry. I assume it is some inane endearment one uses in reference to one's significant other."

"Let's go with that." Napoleon prepared himself to playfully avoid explaining the true meaning of the phrase, but received only a rather despondent sigh in return. "Alright, let's get serious again. Anytime you need a reminder of how awesome you are, you come straight to me, understand?"

"I believe straightness and the lack thereof is the issue here."

Napoleon put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I mean it. I hate to think of me floating on cloud nine while you're suffering in silence. Can you promise that you'll at least consider talking to me if you start getting down on yourself again?"

"If you can promise that you'll not tell people we're together unless you obtain my consent first." Illya met his eyes briefly. "I suppose that is terrible of me to ask…"

The American smiled. "Deal. We'll incrementally work up to your standing on a rooftop and declaring your undying love for me."

The snort of derision that Solo anticipated never arrived. Instead, Kuryakin slouched back against the brick wall and said dully, "I apologize for this outburst of mine just now. It was unnecessary and entirely worth forgetting."

Now Napoleon frowned. "There's no need to apologize. And we'll move past it but I we're not going to forget it. You're not a demigod, chum. We all have insecurities and there's nothing wrong with sharing your worries with someone who cares." He carefully brushed some blond hair behind the attached person's ears. "And I hope you can start sharing a little more often. It's hard work sussing out what's in that crazy head of yours."

Illya tried to ignore the warmth mounting in his cheeks, challenging, "You said that everyone has insecurities. You expect me to believe a gregarious, hyper-confident hedonist such as yourself has any?"

"I worry that I'm not smart enough for you," Solo offered, not bothering to protest against being dubbed a hedonist since he would be hard-pressed to provide a counterargument. "That you'll get bored of me."

"You are smart enough. And I already get bored of you. You bore me when you talk about the importance of dressing well."

Napoleon chuckled.

"And when you want to watch detective shows on television, especially the ones without explosions."

The smile froze a bit.

"And when you drag me to one of those insipid student parties."

Now the smile started fading.

"And when you attempt to teach me American history."

"Anything else?"

"No, I think not. Overall, I find you good company. You're welcome."

Blink. "For what?"

"For eliminating your insecurity."

"Well, I've got others but I don't think I'll share them just now. I can only bear having one insecurity eliminated at a time."

* * *

"Hi there."

Illya looked up, mouthful of food prompting a delay in his verbal response time.

A young woman in a low-cut blouse slipped into the bench across from him in the cafeteria booth. "I'm Angelique. Mind if I join you?"

Swallowing a lump of sticky rice that really deserved to have been chewed a few more times, he managed to reply a moment later. "You seem to have done so already."

She chuckled. "Well, I don't mean to intrude, but I noticed that you've been hanging around Napoleon of late. I used to spend some time with him, but we've sort of fallen out of touch lately. I wanted to get back in touch and was wondering if you'd mind giving me his number."

"I would mind."

"Oh." Her smile briefly disappeared before sweeping back in, with a few extra teeth visible this time. "Well, could you tell me what his dorm building and room number are? Maybe I could slip a note under his door. I'm terribly shy about just going up to people out of the blue."

"I had not noticed."

"Well, desperate times and all that."

" _Well_ ," Illya returned, "even if I told you where he lives, dorm building access is restricted to residents only, so your note-slipping option is not viable. I am afraid you'll simply have to find him on your own and use your words."

"Well, words or… other things." She straightened her blouse, which only resulted in the neckline sinking further. "Really, darling, I don't see what you two have in common that you spend so much time together. You seem so… intellectual."

"You mean, I am the proverbial nerd and Napoleon is the proverbial jock."

"Well, if the stereotype fits…"

Illya wished she'd stop saying "well" before he completely lost it and threw her down one. "Whether it does or does not is none of your business."

Angelique sighed, propped an elbow on the table, and propped her chin on her hand. "Well—" (Illya suppressed a growl.) "—I suppose I'll have to indulge your quirky trait of being utterly ungentlemanly. The eccentric genius and all that."

"You do not have to indulge anything if you leave."

"You want me to leave?"

"I apologize if I did not make that perfectly clear from the beginning."

She chuckled. "You are amusing in your rude little way. Tell me, with your many talents, why do you bother with the whole 'languishing in academia' bit?"

"I am not languishing. I am studying."

"What do you need to study here for? You could study somewhere you'd be really appreciated." She leaned in. "Just think what you could do if you could research whatever you wanted, with unlimited resources at your disposal."

If Illya's guard was up before, it was now reinforced by a full SWAT team. He met her gaze evenly and responded flatly, "That is a moot point. Given the context, the resources you speak of could not possibly be available in infinite quantities."

"Not literally unlimited. But as much as you need of whatever you need. Control of your own research department. Where are you going?"

Illya picked up his cafeteria tray. "You make me lose my appetite."

She followed as he slid the remains of his lunch into the trash and dropped the tray onto the stack atop the disposal bin. "Well, I certainly didn't intend to." Her heels clacked rapidly as she tailed him to the exit. "Does success nauseate you, Illyusha?"

Illya all but punched open the door, not breaking his stride. "Do not call me that."

"Don't you want to see how far you can go with the right support? Pursue the limits of your imagination? Explore the realm of possibility when the full abilities of your mind are unleashed?"

"I have a very delicate sense of smell, Miss Angelique, and quite frankly you are reeking of villainy at the moment."

Angelique finally caught up with Illya's long paces. "Now you're being silly. Villainy? Really, darling, I didn't think you were the type to overindulge in such flights of fancy as thinking _villainy_ might turn up in your dull little life."

"It is concerning that you believe you could presume to know what type I am. On another note, you appear to be quite the accomplished speed-walker." He came to an abrupt halt at the entrance of the university's main Science building. "I have class. You might want to leave now rather than have my professor tell you off. He tends to make his points substantially louder than I do."

Angelique sighed. "Alright. I'll see you again some other time." She leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, which he dodged. She laughed. "Cute. You're a cute little foil for Napoleon's… outgoing nature." She reached up a hand and he didn't manage to dodge a couple of pats on the cheek. "But think about what I said. About what opportunities you have." She blew him a kiss. "Catch you later, Illyusha."

* * *

"A girl was asking after you today."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Blue eyes blinked.

"It's a joke. Because I'm known for being a ladies' man, so…"

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, I _was_ before I met you, my angel."

"Are you finished digging your little hole for yourself?"

"Yes."

"Can I tell you what I was going to tell you now?"

"Yes."

Apparently not satisfied with Napoleon's continued use of his mouth in making responses, Illya simply frowned until the ladies' man sat himself down on the edge of his bed like a good little boy and clamped his trap shut into a sheepish smile.

"A girl wanted me to give her your phone or dorm room number. She was a suspicious character and so I did not tell her. You may speak now."

Napoleon bit back a smile, having a feeling that his amusement would be distinctly unamusing to his companion. "In what way was she suspicious, exactly?"

"She invited herself to join me at my table and made a point of drawing my attention toward her, er, _chest_ … and yet she claimed to be too shy to speak to you. She said that she noticed we had been spending a lot of time together, yet I have never seen her before, so she must have been watching us surreptitiously, i.e. stalking or spying."

"Or you just didn't happen to notice her before," Napoleon suggested, leaning back on his elbows.

Illya frowned. "I am very observant."

"Maybe she was just adjusting her shirt or something and you just assumed she was—"

"I did not assume it. I suggested she use her words in contacting you, and she suggested that she might use 'other things', which in that context quite obviously meant something of a sexual nature. Perhaps you know her, and that will help you come to terms with my observations and understanding of body language being adequate. She said her name is Angelique."

Napoleon's elbows slipped on the firm mattress and he dropped down for a moment before righting himself. "Angelique, eh?"

"That is what I said, yes. I take it you two are acquainted."

"Yes. She's, uh, not the kind of girl you'd take to meet your mother."

Illya blinked. "She is not a nice person, then."

"Yes, Illya, she's not at all a nice person. I know I don't have any right to tell you what to do, but I would highly recommend avoiding her in the future."

"I did not particularly wish to encounter her in the past. She simply appeared."

"I know but, if she simply appears again, it might be a good idea for you to simply flee in terror. Subtly, of course."

Illya pouted in thought, then slipped into a sly grin. "How badly did you scorn Angelique that you find it advisable for me to subtly flee in terror?"

"Don't make me the bad guy! _She's_ the bad guy!"

"So the ladies' man is the one getting scorned?"

"Nobody got scorned! She's—" Napoleon let out something between a sigh and a growl before taking a deep breath. "Fine," he exhaled. "Make fun of me if you want, but please take me seriously when I say to stay away from Angelique."

Illya sat down next to Napoleon. "This bad, it is?"

"Yes, Yoda, this bad."

"I am attempting to be sympathetic. Do not mock my English while I am attempting to be sympathetic."

Napoleon leaned forward again, reaching an arm around Illya. "Okay. Sorry. Just—"

"Stay away from Angelique. As it is so important to you, I will, but perhaps you can tell me why. Not that I need a reason, as she did not make such an endearing first impression that I actively want to see her again."

"To be perfectly honest, Illya, no. I can't tell you. I will tell you that I have done some, uh, canoodling with Angelique in the past. It won't be happening again, though, and I only mention the past canoodling so you'll know not to pay attention if she tries to—"

"She will not try to do anything. I shall have fled several city blocks before she can make any attempts of any sort. Your mind may be at ease."

Napoleon felt more like narrowing his eyes and suggesting that Illya stay locked in his dorm room for a while, then he came up with a better idea and beamed. "Excellent. Now that we have that all settled, I can invite you to come away with me for the weekend."

"Yes, you can, but why would you?"

"I'm flying out to spend a couple of days with my parents," Napoleon went on. "It's something I try to do every month, when possible. It's possible the weekend after this one, and I'd like you to join me."

Illya frowned at him again.

"It would be nice for you to get out of the city for a while. And yes, you'll have to meet my parents in the process, but I'm not going to spring a marriage proposal on you or anything, so you're safe."

"So, Angelique is not the type of girl you'd take to meet your mother, but I am?"

Napoleon snickered. "Subtract the 'girl' part, and then yes."

The blond still looked skeptical but asked, "Where is it that your parents live?"

"Montana."

"I have been led to believe that Montana is composed of rather a large swath of land, Napoleon."

"About two and a half hours South-ish of Helena, if that helps, smarty-pants."

"You wish me to join you more or less in the middle of nowhere, then."

"Approximately."

"A charming man who I met scarcely a month ago wishes to take me to a remote location. This bodes well." Solo opened his mouth to make a retort, but only managed a light laugh before Illya carried on with, "Very well. I will join you."

"Can we tell my parents we're a couple, or is that pushing it? I know it's only been a few days since our little chat outside Del Floria's, but—"

"It depends. What is it that you want to tell them we are a couple of?"

Napoleon feigned contemplation. "Boyfriends, I thought."

"I suppose it would be difficult for them to spread the word given the minimal population density, and I suppose it is unlikely that I should randomly run into them again after this initial meeting. If you do not believe it would make for awkward parental interaction, and you wish to do so, go ahead."

And so Napoleon did go ahead. Via text message. On the Friday about two weeks later. Just before he prepared to board the plane.

 _Napoleon: Hi, Mom. We're about to start le flight_

 _Napoleon: BTW Illya is my boyfriend_

Airplane mode.

* * *

Napoleon was almost going to attempt to be first off the plane but Illya muttered something about having no desire to be trampled, so the brunet sat back down and toyed with the idea of turning off airplane mode and checking for texts. He decided to live on the edge. Wait and see what his parents thought in person. Wouldn't be long, anyway.

About five minutes later, they had disembarked and were heading out of the building. Each of them had only brought a carry-on, and Mr. and Mrs. Solo were supposed to meet them outside, as it was a beautiful day.

Illya managed to conceal a start when, virtually the instant they crossed the threshold between inside and out, Napoleon thrust a hand into the air and waved enthusiastically. He didn't manage to avoid jumping when Solo's hand was suddenly on his back, applying constant pressure as they approached a well-tanned, wiry-looking older couple. The pressure left as soon as it came, just long enough for Napoleon to quickly hug both parents at the same time, then abruptly returned as he guided the blond slightly closer, saying cheerfully, "Mère, Père, this is Illya."

As Illya was bracing himself to make a good (and thoroughly unenjoyable) effort at good manners, Mrs. Solo held a hand up. She knitted her brows together and he started to worry that she was going to slap him in the face, but eventually she said very slowly, "Priyatno poznakomit'sya."

Before he could think to repress his instinct to smile, Illya found that smile stretching his cheeks. "It is nice to meet you too, madam, and that is the nicest thing anyone in this country has said to me."

Mrs. Solo returned his grin. All those minutes of internet research into Russian greetings and the pronunciations thereof had clearly paid off. "Really? Then Napoleon certainly needs to treat you better." She gave her son a light cuff on the shoulder. "Pete's sake, sweetie, he looks like one of your Aunt Amy's china dolls and you can't come up with lovely things to say to him?"

Napoleon sort of spluttered a bit, and Mr. Solo took the opportunity to offer a hand for Illya to shake, saying, "I'm glad to meet you, too, Illya, but I won't try to say what the missus did, since I'd botch up the sounds so bad I'd probably start an international incident."

Illya shook the hand and brought his wildly overt smile under control (a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth was quite sufficient—really, Illya Nikolayevich, get a hold of yourself).

"Flying's always such an ordeal, isn't it?" Mrs. Solo fretted, taking Illya's arm and steering him toward the parking lot. "Let's get you boys settled at home. We parked at the far end of the lot so you could stretch your legs a bit."

Mr. Solo chuckled as he and his son trailed behind, commenting as the lady chatted with the foreigner, "Seems like my wife's stolen your boyfriend, my boy." He clapped a hand on Napoleon's shoulder. "What took you so long?"

The younger Solo frowned. "Huh?"

"Were you afraid we'd react badly?" When Napoleon still wore an expression of bemusement, Mr. Solo clarified, "Why didn't you come out to us sooner?"

"Oh. I. Didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"That it was necessary. Illya's the first guy I felt something for."

Mr. Solo waggled his finger. "And that's another thing: you haven't had a girlfriend since high school, now here you are flying your first boyfriend out to meet your folks. What the hell did you feel—a freight truck transporting wedding bells?"

"Slow your roll, father mine. I haven't been able to spend as much time with Illya as I'd like to, but I didn't want to miss a chance to see you and Mom, either. The easiest solution was to bring him with me."

* * *

Napoleon was settled in his old room and Illya in the guest room of the large, rustic home that the Russian refused to acknowledge as being worthy of the humble title of "cabin." He did, however, agree with Napoleon that "middle of nowhere" was an appropriate description for its setting, as the pair only managed to walk across a small portion of the expansive grounds with Mr. Solo before returning to the not-a-cabin for the dinner that Mrs. Solo prepared. Afterward, Mrs. Solo asked if the visitors would mind driving out to the supermarket to pick up a few things that she'd forgotten earlier—oatmeal, rice cakes, beans….

Napoleon agreed heartily for the both of them and they headed out to the car, which—to the eternal disappointment of Illya's preconceptions of Montanans—was still a zippy little hybrid rather than a gas-guzzling pickup truck.

"There's nothing more fun than driving out here with the road all to yourself," Solo explained his good mood. "Can you drive?"

Illya shook his head ruefully. "I have not the need." He was somehow wary of the twinkle in Solo's eyes, and was not disappointed as he reflexively caught the keys that the American chucked over to him. "And I have not a license."

"There's no safer place to drive than an open road, my friend." Napoleon got into the passenger seat and moved to close the door, looking up when it resisted that motion.

Passenger door firmly in one hand, Illya glowered down at him. "A dark open road? A driver with zero experience?"

"Hey, American cars are easy. It's not like the Brits' and their manual transmission. You have one pedal for 'stop', one pedal for 'go', and the wheel to turn left and right. I'm sure someone of your mental fortitude can figure it out."

"And in the unlikely event that we encounter another vehicle?"

"Once we get closer to town," Napoleon said reassuringly, "you can pull over and we'll swap places."

"And in the unlikely event that I pitch us into a ravine?"

"There is nary a ravine en route into which we might be pitched." He grinned. "C'mon, you know you want to. I promise, at the first hint of trouble, you stop the car and I'll take over."

The Russian sighed deeply and slammed the door shut. Taking his spot in the driver's seat, he grumbled, "Given my mental fortitude, I often astonish myself with my terrible judgement." As the engine started, he turned to the merry passenger. "If we both die in a horrible car wreck because you talked me into this idiocy, I hope you feel completely responsible and terribly guilty."

Napoleon chuckled and reached up to play with Illya's hair. "If we both die, I won't be able to feel much of anything."

"In the instants before you perish, I hope you feel completely responsible and terribly guilty."

"Should the occasion arise, I promise I shall feel tremendously at fault. And should we return as ghosts, you can be the Head Haunter."

"Now you are being ridiculous." Illya yanked his head away from Napoleon's fingertips, then tugged the seatbelt around and clicked it into place, folding his arms as he waited for the engine to warm up.

"Hey," Solo argued, "I told you: ridiculous is my job." He sighed. "Look, if you really don't want to—"

"I did not say that. I simply tend to be nervous when doing something illegal." Pause. "When doing something illegal in the presence of witnesses," he amended.

Napoleon grinned, patting him on the knee. "I'll cover for ya. Give it a couple more minutes and then you can let 'er rip. So, what illegal things are you not nervous about doing without the presence of witnesses?"

"If I told you, I would have to be nervous and it would not be fun anymore."

"At least you didn't say you'd have to kill me."

"I thought that part went without saying."

"Well, if I'm lucky we'll pitch into a ravine and you won't have to kill me twice."

"Can we go now?"

"Have at it, good sir. Try to keep to the speed limit, though, since sometimes a cop turns up when you least expect it."

"And for safety, of course."

"Sure."

Illya prodded at the gear shift with one finger. "What do I do with this? I know I need to use it somehow."

"Okay. You use your right foot on both pedals, and the left one's the brake. Press down on the brake. …Good. Now keep your left hand on the wheel and use your right to shift the gear: press the little button on the side and pull down to 'D' for drive."

"I thought you said, 'Stop pedal, Go pedal, steering wheel.'"

"And gear shift—oh, and you should probably adjust the mirrors first."

Illya huffed out a sigh and slapped the gear shift back into Park.

"I lied, I'm sorry."

A few minutes later, they were finally out of the driveway, and the subsequent half hour was spent with Kuryakin's broad grin only interrupted by Solo's helpful reminders that they were going about twenty miles per hour too fast… slow down… good… too fast… good….

"Alright, we'll be hitting a traffic light soon. Pull over here."

Illya gave something between a sigh and a groan but smacked the turn signal and swerved onto the shoulder, coming to a literal screeching halt.

"Okay! Aside from the near-constant speeding and the _delightfully_ smooth parking, you did good."

"Well."

"I speak the truth, Lead Foot."

"I meant that you should have said I did 'well', not 'good'."

"Just switch seats with me."

Fifteen more minutes later, they were in the largely empty supermarket, shopping list and basket in hand. Before they could get past the registers, the communicator hidden in Napoleon's watch vibrated and he took out his cellphone from his pocket, giving it a critical look.

"Sorry, but I have to take this."

"Then I shall take the list. No sense in delaying the process of putting food in your parents' cupboards."

The outstretched hand left no room for argument so, even though Napoleon lamented postponing his domestic outing with the BF, he handed over the sheet of notepaper and loitered around the florist area (abandoned for the night) to discreetly remove and assemble his communicator as Illya set off.

* * *

Illya pondered the overabundant variety of breads and rice cakes and muffins. Shelves and shelves of the stuff. It wasn't that he hadn't been grocery shopping before, but it wasn't an activity he engaged in on anything approaching a regular basis: he hadn't made such expeditions with his parents since he was very small and, over his years of studying in England, he'd managed only two solo trips to a supermarket and gotten the rest of his food by eating out or having groceries delivered to his door.

Based on his memories of shopping in Russia, Ukraine, and England, he could not recall anywhere else having so many different types of the same thing. Most of them were probably just about the same, so what was the point?

With a sigh resigned to his current fate of confronting American excess, he checked the list— _rice cakes_ , it said—and devoted himself to perusing the dozen or so variations on the requested theme.

"Oh, I know, honey."

Illya shifted his eyes automatically at the sound of a voice so close by. He noted the lady in the hoodie beside him—observed that she seemed to be on the phone rather than making a bizarre attempt to engage him in conversation—before turning back to the task at hand.

"I know, it's just awful." She grabbed a plastic bag of something and headed off. "But just wait a couple months and you'll have a nice shiny new year…"

A chill struck the center of Illya's chest.

A droning ring overtook the sound of the pop music being pumped through the store.

The force of gravity vacated the space surrounding his head.

His heart stuck in his throat and tried to force itself ever upward as his vision blurred and his knees buckled.

 _What happened? Why now?_

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't stand… the coat that had been so cozy in the Montana cold suddenly smothered him.

 _Am I dying?_

It was too hot—his fingers were too numb to feel for the zipper so he pulled the coat over his head, rolled up his shirtsleeves, briefly felt the relief of the air on his sweat-drenched skin.

 _No, I'm fine. I know I'm fine…_

Then it was too cold, but the sweat continued to flow. The ringing intensified. The ground rocked beneath him and the blurry shelves of excessive grain-based products began flashing.

 _I know I'm fine…_

* * *

Napoleon put the communicator receiver in his ear, secure in the knowledge that, to most people, it would look like a slightly unusual but not completely outrageous cellular headset. For not the first time, he said a little prayer in hopes that the U.N.C.L.E. would start catching up on cell technology and computer security but soon, so they could do away with regularly relying on radio transmissions.

As a beep sounded in his ear, he parked himself in front of a stand displaying bouquets of flowers and said amicably, "Solo here. What's so damn important?"

 _"Intelligence asked me to pass along what they found in response to your latest request. The Cliffs Notes version, of course, since us plebes ain't certified to access the gory details."_

He held a blossom between a couple of fingers and absently started playing with the soft petals. "Ah, so they finally got around to it, eh? I was starting to think I'd have to do it myself."

 _"Oh, you're gonna flippin' love this."_ He cleared his throat dramatically. _"Let's see… Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin, only child of Nikolay Kuryakin and Valentyna Balakhonova. Born in Pyatigorsk, Russia and, ah… birthday's the ninth of November, mate."_ A snort obviously intended to cover a laugh. _"He's seventeen for a couple weeks yet, you dirty old man."_

The blossom ripped from the stem of the flower and Napoleon quickly slipped the evidence of destruction down the side of the bouquet. He face-palmed. "Good lord, if he de-ages one more time—Jesus, at least we haven't done anything that could get me arrested for corrupting a youth's morals."

 _"Methinks the lecher doth protest too much."_

"Ye 'thinks' what ye 'wants'. But I've never been happier that he tends to be shy in, uh, certain ways." He did some quick figuring and concluded he'd have to wait fifteen days before daring to try for another proper kiss. Fifteen stinking days.

 _"Mm-_ **hmmm** _…"_

"Get on with it, Slate." Of all the things Illya hadn't told him, why did he have to not disclose _this_ thing? No, he couldn't blame Illya: Napoleon was supposed to be the agent, good at figuring out things and people and relevant things about people—

 _"That was it."_

A beat, and Napoleon's mental grousing was gone. "What do you mean, 'that was it'?"

 _"That was all that Intelligence could find from the comfort of their U.N.C.L.E. offices. It would seem T.H.R.U.S.H. swept through ahead of us and corrupted as much of the digitally-available information on Illya that they could get their grubby little claws on."_

"Please tell me they didn't give up."

 _"Of course not, Polo. That's why it's taken so long. We had one of ours in Russia cozy up with his mum. Not the chattiest of ladies, it would seem, except when it comes to her darling Illyusha. Combining her information with other records that our Russian agent pulled based on that information… doo-doo-doo…"_ Mark hummed as he presumably reread something.

" _He's got four degrees that we're aware of: physics, maths, computer science, and chemistry, in addition to the doctorate currently in progress. Studied at Taras Shevchenko Uni in Kiev, Oxford and Cambridge in the UK, and now New York._

" _Been Russian junior national champion in taekwondo and judo. Hospitalized over a dozen times, but we've not cracked open the vaults to find out why just yet. According to what his mum said, though, at least one time must have been the broken back that took him out of gymnastics—junior champion in that, too, he was—and another seems to be a broken leg, and of course he told us himself about being in hospital for exhaustion."_

Napoleon rubbed the back of his neck. "Are you sure this is all one guy?"

" _Aw, is the international spy intimidated by his teenage boyfriend?"_

"Trainee," Napoleon automatically corrected, "and I haven't gone international yet. And I'm not intimidated, just surprised, although I guess I shouldn't be. He's gotta be something if Angelique was trying to make friends."

" _My thoughts exactly, and Crane's, too. Intelligence was told to keep digging."_

Napoleon paused. "We're screening him?" That had kind of been his point in suggesting that a report be put together on Kuryakin, but it always came as a surprise when CEA Crane agreed with him on anything.

" _Well, he's obviously a genius, but that's not necessarily enough to get T.H.R.U.S.H. interested in wooing him to their side rather than just snatching him off the street and bending him to their evil will. We wanna know what they know and, if the higher-ups like what they see…"_

"…we'll extend a courteous invitation to a prospective nephew," Solo finished.

" _Anyway, you interrupted my delightful monologue before I could finish the last bit of what we've got so far. He's seen at least seven different mental health specialists in different countries and with different specializations. According to one very helpful psychiatrist who stores their notes in the Cloud, at different points he's been diagnosed with—bear with me a second."_

Solo gritted his teeth as Slate took a gasp of air and rattled off, _"Generalized anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, persistent depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, schizoid personality disorder, antisocial personality disorder, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, and it seems the word 'psychopathy' has been bandied about here and there."_

Napoleon swore under his breath. "Did you just list literally every disorder in the book?"

" _Nah, mate, not quite all of 'em. And I'd take all the ones that were listed with a grain of salt, Polo. The brain's still forming into the early twenties, and no two people gave him the same diagnosis, which isn't all that, uh… promising? At least one of them's probably wrong. And as I am a lofty undergraduate student of psychology whereas you are a lowly geographer—"_

"Watch it, bub."

"— _I will further advise that you should continue treating him same as you always have. Sometimes folks with mental health issues don't disclose them specifically because of the stigma and the fear of being treated like they aren't 'normal'. If he's out and about and functioning reasonably well in society—as he seems to be doing—he presumably is not a danger to himself or others."_

Napoleon assumed his iciest tone. "I assure you, _Doctor_ Slate, that I wasn't about to book a padded room and a straitjacket."

Mark assumed his cheeriest tone. _"Yeah, I was fairly certain of that, but it don't hurt to be sure, does it?"_

Solo grunted. He supposed he should be grateful rather than insulted that Slate was trying to look out for Illya's interests. "You know, even though we aren't getting transcripts of therapy sessions or whatever—considering that we have low-level security clearance, even hearing about prospective diagnoses is a little…"

" _Egregiously intrusive and grossly irresponsible? Agreed."_

"When you, Dancer, and I are running the joint, that can be our first order of business."

" _Sounds like a plan. Provided the second order of business can be fixing that vending machine in the commissary. Damn thing lives off dollar bills gleaned from the wallets of unsuspecting Brits. Which reminds me, can you trade me a few singles for a fiver when you get back?"_

* * *

Napoleon took him by the shoulders and—

"For god's sake, don't shake him."

Napoleon looked up to see a ginger-haired string-bean of a man standing nearby, peering down through wide eyes. The English accent was unmissable, but wondering what the hell had brought a Brit (who was not Mark) out to this corner of the West was not a priority at the moment.

The American blurted, "He's not reacting normally—I—" He turned back to the blond crumpled on the floor as the gasping for breath grew louder. "Dammit, I don't know!"

"Is he having a panic attack?"

Napoleon looked up again. "What?"

"Is he having a panic attack?"

"I don't… a panic attack? Should I call an ambulance?"

"That shouldn't be necessary, if it is a panic attack."

"You seem to have more ideas than I do. Help me out here, would you?"

The man looked skeptical. "I'm not a doctor—"

"And I am?"

The man hesitated a moment, then came closer and knelt down. "What's his name?"

"Illya."

The Englishman took the Russian's hands. "Illya." He spoke loudly without shouting. "My name is Morse. Squeeze my hands please. Come on, now. Squeeze my hands. …That's right. I'm going to count three, like this: one, two, three. You inhale as I count. Then I'll count six, like this: four, five, six. You exhale as I count. Squeeze my hands if you understand. …Well done. One, two, three…"

Napoleon sat by and rubbed Illya's bicep and felt generally helpless for a few moments, then felt slightly better when Illya's breathing gradually became more in sync with Morse's count.

"Are you gents alright?"

The American looked up to see a store employee standing with a befuddled expression at the end of the aisle. "My… he's having a panic attack." Napoleon glanced over to Morse. "Would it help if he got out of the glaring overhead lighting situation in here?"

Morse finished another inhale-exhale cycle and muttered, "Couldn't hurt, I suppose."

Napoleon looked back to the employee, "Is there an office or lounge or something we could borrow? Just for a few minutes so he isn't sitting on the floor."

The befuddled expression morphed into concern. "Yessir. Should I get EMS out here, sir?"

"He's getting better. I think if he can just rest for a little bit he should be well enough to go home."

"Yessir."

Napoleon grasped Illya's shoulder. He followed the redhead's example of speaking at a higher volume. "We're gonna move, buddy. Sit your behind on something more comfortable." To his eternal joy, Illya sort of nodded. "You're the best."

Morse automatically took Illya's right arm as Napoleon kept a hold on his left, and they slowly hauled the blond up, supporting most of his weight when his knees quaked and an attempt at words ended in a strangled gasp.

"Easy there," Morse urged. "One, two, three…"

The employee dashed over and scooped up the coat left on the floor before leading the way to the manager's office. "Mr. Gantry isn't here just now, but I'll let him know as soon as he's here and I'm sure he won't mind so you take your time and let me know if you need anything, but I'm gonna leave the door open since Mr. Gantry'll probably be pissed if I—"

"I know, you have to keep an eye on us," Napoleon rushed out. "I understand. Thank you—" A glance at the nametag. "—Alfred."

Alfred nodded, hung Illya's coat on the hook behind the door, left the door ajar, and left the three in the office.

Napoleon and Morse continued half-carrying Illya to the office chair behind the desk as it was slightly larger than the "visitor" chair, as well as having arms to help keep its occupant adequately positioned. He was barely in the chair when the blond half-wheezed, "Thanks."

"Hallelujah, he speaks," Napoleon breathed, wrapping an arm around Illya's shoulders as Morse faded back to retrieve the coat. Napoleon took the garment and placed it over the shivering Illya before replacing his arm. "Are you okay?"

Illya rasped, "Yes—just—panic…."

Napoleon couldn't stop smiling from relief. He turned to Morse. "You were right and I know it's terrible but I'm so happy it wasn't worse."

"Felt—like death," Illya contributed and Napoleon's smile faltered. He'd never had a panic attack and even now barely knew what one was. Apparently it was this, and apparently it was not fun.

"How's your hearing?" Morse asked.

"Still—ring but… quieter."

"And your vision?"

Words failed him this time, so Illya raised his trembling hands, flexing and contracting his fingers a few times.

"Flashing?"

A nod.

Napoleon ran a few fingers over the damp strands of hair sticking to his boyfriend's forehead. "I'm so glad a random British person with a random knowledge of panic attacks and how to treat them just happened to randomly be here." _I'll have Intelligence randomly run a background check on you later._

"Visiting an old friend," Morse muttered. "And knowing a bit about stress reactions comes in handy at times."

Napoleon resolved to poke at Crane later and see if he couldn't get her onboard with Morse's philosophy on learning how to respond to stress reactions. Meanwhile, he wondered, "Reactions to what? We're just picking up a few groceries, not disarming a bomb."

"Well, this specific case, I can't possibly know. Sometimes there's no apparent cause, other than general stress, perhaps." He tapped Illya's forearm lightly. "Has this happened before?"

Illya nodded and Napoleon's eyebrows moved toward his hairline.

"So… I-I know… fine but—years… years since…"

"Easy there," Morse urged. "If this has happened before, you know that you'll get better without exerting yourself." A clock on the wall chirped that it was nine p.m., and he looked at his watch to confirm. "Not to be rude but, if you're on the mend now, I should be on my way."

Napoleon straightened up, removing his arm from Illya's shoulders. "Of course. Thank you, Mr. Morse." He extended a hand, which the Brit shook. "Sorry for acting like an idiot, and thank you for compensating for my…" (Solo winced.) "…incompetence."

"No trouble at all. From my limited knowledge base, it could be a little while before he's back to normal, but he'll be fine soon enough." He smiled at Illya, raising his voice slightly in consideration of the lingering ringing. "Get some rest, you'll be right as rain."

Illya moved his arm a bit and Morse took the hint, shaking the shaky hand delicately. "Thank you."

"Not at all." Morse gave a stiff wave and set off.

Napoleon crouched next to the chair and took Illya's hand, squeezing it occasionally and smiling each time Illya squeezed back. After a few minutes, his breathing seemed almost even so Napoleon asked, "How're you holding up?"

"Better."

"Think you can make it to the car, or do you want to stay here a little longer?"

"Groceries?"

"I'm sure Mom will understand. You sleep in and I'll go with her in the morning." He kissed the hand that now betrayed only the barest of tremors. "Okay?"

"But—"

"Let me put it this way: Mom will be royally ticked if I make you do the shopping instead of getting you home to rest."

"Why?"

" _Why_? Illya, you just had a panic attack."

"She does not know that. She does not need to know that."

Napoleon let out a breath. "I'm not arguing with you right now. We are going home. Seeing as I'm the one with the more reliable set of limbs, I'm having my way with you."

"Nice innuendo."

"I thought so."

A knock on the door attracted their attention and a large, mustachioed man came through. "I'm Joe Gantry, night manager here. Alfred told me you had a health incident?" Gantry's eyes focused on Illya, seeing as he was still somewhat obviously out of it.

"Better now," Napoleon supplied. "He just needed a place to sit for a few minutes besides your lovely but undeniably uncomfortable tile floors. We're about ready to leave now." He gingerly started pulling Illya up from the seat. When the shorter man wobbled a bit, the manager hustled over and took the side opposite Napoleon, who smiled his thanks before bundling Illya into the coat that had just previously been serving as a blanket.

"I'm fine," Illya murmured, but Napoleon mouthed _Help to car, please_ behind the blond head, so Mr. Gantry came along to the parking lot, solicitously keeping a hand to the blond's elbow and only grabbing it when there was any sign of unsteadiness.

Once Illya was in the passenger seat, Napoleon shut the door. "Thank you, Mr. Gantry."

"No need for that, sir, I just hope the little fella's alright."

"Oh, he's a tough nut." Napoleon almost grimaced at his own phraseology in light of having learned the outline of his boyfriend's mental health history, but covered it with a grin. "Good night."

Mr. Gantry gave Solo's proffered hand a firm shake. "Night."

As the manager briskly returned to his store, Napoleon walked around to the driver's side and joined his companion in the vehicle, only to find Illya semi-blindly pawing at the seatbelt that was infuriatingly just beyond his current range of motion.

"Allow me," Napoleon announced his intention before stretching across and retrieving the metal bit of the belt, placing it into Illya's hand and watching closely as the Russian somewhat haltingly accomplished the task of clicking it into place. "Atta boy."

"I'm fine now," Illya returned tersely. "You can stop babying me."

Not quite convinced—Illya's face was drawn and his eyes didn't quite manage to focus on anything—Napoleon started the car and offered in a conciliatory tone, "Alright, I promise I'll be an absolute brute from now on." He turned the heat up to the highest setting and waited for the vehicle to warm up.

A few moments later, Illya said flatly, "I apologize for inconveniencing you."

Napoleon shook his head and smiled. "You didn't inconvenience me. Scared me out of my wits, though."

"Well, given the modest area within which your wits are corralled…"

"Glad to hear you're feeling better." He reached over and weaved their fingers together, trying not to sound overly gentle in consideration of the anti-babying demand. "That seemed pretty brutal."

Illya rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

"I guess I never realized what it was like. A panic attack, I mean. I've heard of it, of course, but…." He trailed off with a shrug.

"The first time I had one," Illya said matter-of-factly, "I thought I was having a stroke or a heart attack."

Napoleon squeezed the hand in his lightly. "Where did it happen?"

"In the bathroom at my flat in Cambridge."

"So you were alone."

Illya nodded, eyes still shut. "One second I combed my hair, the next I was sat on the floor. This time, I knew I had only to wait it out, even though I was unable to communicate that to you. The first one… I hate to make a fuss, but I was so convinced that I was on the verge of death that I came quite close to calling for an ambulance."

"Has it happened a lot?"

"For a while it did, yes. Not recently, though." Illya opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the brunet. "I hope I'm not oversharing."

"Not oversharing, not under-sharing," Napoleon assured him. "Whatever you're comfortable telling me is just right." With a final squeeze, he unclasped their hands. "Engine's warmed up now. How about some music?"

When Illya nodded, Napoleon switched on the radio and turned to the Classical station, as he'd overheard the blond listening to that stuff while studying. He'd also overheard some jazz and sometimes rock music of the angry variety, but deliberately listening to either of those would require a level of saintliness Solo had no intentions of pursuing.

A few notes into a song, as Napoleon navigated out of the parking lot, Illya shut his eyes again and commented, "Shostakovich."

"Gesundheit." Napoleon glanced over long enough to appreciate the scowl he'd anticipated.

"Thank you."

Knowing that this was in reference to his efforts to look after Illya, he flashed a smile at the passenger. "Anytime."

By the time they arrived back at the Solo home, Illya was able to walk on his own but was unable to completely restore his usual stoic facade. Mrs. Solo caught on to the slightly strained expression the second they came in the door. It probably didn't help that Napoleon repeatedly glanced at Illya with a look that was more concerned than anything else, and that the groceries she had sent them out for were notably absent.

"What happened?"

Illya slipped off his coat and hung it on the stand by the door. "I am sorry, Mrs. Solo, but we did not get the shopping done."

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"We are fine, Mrs. Solo, thank you."

"That doesn't answer the second question, Illya."

Napoleon finished hanging up his own coat and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder, warning, "She's going to be more worried if you don't tell her."

"You look exhausted," Mrs. Solo fussed, taking Illya's elbow and gently pulling him along. "Come through to the living room and sit down. You look like you've run a marathon."

Napoleon trailed after with a chuckle. "It wouldn't surprise me if he attempted that in the morning just to prove he's fine." He added sharply, "Don't do that, by the way."

Illya gave a feeble version of a scornful scoff. "It will be a sacrifice—" He let Mrs. Solo lead him to the sofa as she waved at Mr. Solo to turn off the TV, and also let Mr. Solo take his free elbow and help him into the corner of the couch that he'd been told earlier was the most comfortable part of the seat. "—but I promise."

"Did you go swimming?" Mr. Solo quipped in regard to the light sheen of sweat still coating Illya's paler-than-normal skin. Noting the shivers that occasionally wracked the smaller frame, the older man grabbed the blanket that was folded across the back of the sofa and brought it to cover the guest.

Napoleon took the spot next to Illya and looped their arms together, clasping their adjoining hands. As Mr. and Mrs. Solo took other seats and looked on with concern, Illya shifted his eyes to Napoleon, who nodded insistently.

Illya sighed a bit. "I had a panic attack at the supermarket."

Mrs. Solo frowned and Mr. Solo asked, "A what, son?"

"A panic attack. My chest hurt, I couldn't breathe, I became lightheaded, my ears were ringing, my vision went out, and I lost the strength to stand." He looked to Napoleon again. "Have I shared my human frailties to a satisfactory degree?"

"Oh, good gracious," Mrs. Solo gasped, coming to sit on the arm of the sofa and taking Illya's free hand. "Do you need to see a doctor? Will it happen again?"

Illya shook his head. "I do not know if it will happen again. I have been to see doctors in the past but they could not do anything. Seeing another doctor would likely be similarly ineffective."

Mr. Solo looked more confused than he had a moment ago. "What happened in the supermarket?"

"If you are inquiring after the cause of the panic attack," Illya replied, "I cannot supply a satisfactory answer. One minute I was contemplating baked goods and the next I was a pathetic heap on the floor."

Napoleon squeezed his hand. "You're not pathetic."

"Not at the moment." He squirmed a bit. "I appreciate your concern but I would appreciate it more if at least one hand could be my own."

Mrs. Solo accordingly relinquished her grip but stayed on her perch. "I'm sorry, dear. I certainly didn't mean to overwhelm you. Would some chamomile tea help, do you think?"

The edges of Illya's mouth quirked upward. "If living in England taught me nothing else, Mrs. Solo, it was that tea helps with everything. Thank you."

She returned the smile and suggested that Illya turn in early: she'd make the tea and have Napoleon bring it up to the guest room when it was ready.

* * *

Once he was sure everybody was tucked away in their assorted bedrooms and well on the way to dreamland, Napoleon hooked his U.N.C.L.E. communicator in his ear and tapped open the transmitter. "Open channel S."

" _Channel S open_ ," a voice rasped. _"Sock it to me, kid."_

"What's up, Gerry?"

" _I think you're supposed to tell me that."_

"A couple of questions on my mind."

" _Wow, room for two whole questions in there, eh?"_

"First, I need to know if there are any birds of an evil feather roundabouts Montana."

" _And then?"_

"Then I need a quick check on a person of British origin—I need to make sure he isn't here out of malicious intent, so I'm pretty sure Crane should approve. First or last name Morse, about five foot nine, red hair, gray or blue eyes. Currently in Montana."

" _Be a little less helpful, would you? Right on it, sugar lips. I'll see what I can get. Want me to call you when I got something or will you call me?"_

"If it's before five a.m., you call me. Thanks, Gerry."

" _Rock 'n roll, babe."_

About an hour later, the communicator buzzed. "Solo here."

The familiarly hoarse voice came through. _"Got you some A's to your burning Q's, kiddo. The nearest known Thrush is fifty miles north of the Canadian border, but they can be slippery little shitheads so one can never be sure."_

"And Morse?"

" _Endeavour Morse—I'm freakin' serious, his first name is Endeavour, Christ sake. Anyway, he's a sergeant with the Oxford City Police in jolly old England. Visiting an ex-colleague who lives about two hours west of you. Seems legit. Kind of a weirdo but, you know, not in a sinister way. You should be well acquainted with that concept."_

Napoleon chuckled. "Tell me, Ger. Are you a chain-smoking nonagenarian, or a screamer in a punk band?"

" _Since when are those options mutually exclusive?"_

"No matter. One of these days I'll run into you at the office, my love."

" _Aw, and kill the mystery? You'll break my heart, bubbeleh. Anything else or are you just wasting my time now?"_

"Wasting time, I guess."

Gerry closed the channel and Napoleon laughed to himself again.

* * *

 _Whump._

Napoleon's eyes snapped open.

 _Thump, thump, thump._

He looked up to the headboard of his bed. Another thump sounded on the wall between his room and the guestroom currently occupied by Illya. Napoleon grabbed his gun in the event that he ran into trouble, pulled on his robe so he could hide the gun in a large pocket in the event that he didn't run into trouble, and opened his bedroom door. A glance up and down the hall revealed nothing of concern, so he tiptoed a few feet down the wall until he came upon the closed guestroom door: to knock or not to knock?

 _Knock_.

 _Knock-knock_.

 _THUMP._

One hand hovering over his gun, Napoleon used the other to retrieve a small flashlight from his non-gun-filled robe pocket, then twisted the doorknob. He opened the door just enough to peer through and saw nothing on his first visual sweep. Adding the flashlight for a second sweep, he only spotted Illya—sitting up in bed, blankets shoved to the floor, hands clutched at his chest, breathing heavily, wide eyes facing the door.

"Oh, no," Napoleon sighed, although at the same time it was a relief to find Illya alone rather than being throttled by an enemy agent. He closed the door behind himself as he fully entered the room and switched off his flashlight as soon as he switched on the bedside lamp. "Two attacks in one day?"

Illya shook his head. "No—maybe—tomorrow…"

If Illya was already able to speak again, Napoleon wasn't sure whether he should be relieved at a milder attack or more upset at the thought of Illya having been dealing with this alone for an indeterminate amount of time.

"Two in two days isn't much easier, I'm sure." He hooked his gun-concealing robe on the bedpost, picked up the comforter from the floor, and climbed into bed beside Illya, pulling the blanket up around them both and draping an arm around his boyfriend's shaking shoulders.

 _"…had a very shiny nose…"_

Napoleon frowned. "The hell…?" He peered over the edge of the bed and spotted Illya's cell phone on the floor, where the blanket had been.

 _"…you would even say it glows…"_

"Right back," Napoleon said with a quick squeeze of Illya's upper arm. He slipped off the bed and picked up the phone, regarding the dark screen with a suspicious eye as Gene Autry continued quietly regaling him with the tale of a red-nosed reindeer.

Touching the screen did nothing. Pressing the on-off button did nothing, and neither did pressing and holding it. The other buttons were similarly useless.

"Illya, were you playing music on your phone?"

"Wha—what?"

He repeated in a louder voice, "Were you playing music on your phone?"

"No. Is it making noise? My ears—still ringing."

Napoleon was about to take the phone out and smash it to smithereens out of an abundance of caution, but the phone took the responsibility of destruction upon itself and very considerately emitted a couple of sparks, which gave Napoleon enough time to toss the thing into the wastepaper basket by the door before it stopped sparking and set to melting and curling in on itself. The phone was a lump within seconds, then proceeded to disintegrate until only ashes remained.

"Napoleon…"

The man with that name forced his gaze from the wastebasket and instantly felt a pang in the vicinity of his heart. Illya's eyes were brighter than they'd been when the phone had beckoned, moisture gathering on the lower lids. Napoleon returned to the spot next to Illya and reinitiated the one-armed hug.

"My vision—not clear and in the dark…." The Russian half-sniffed, half-choked out his words. "What happened?"

"Your phone was malfunctioning. Uh, you know: like those phones that were exploding in people's pockets a while ago?" It wasn't entirely untrue, although Napoleon suspected this particular incident had somewhat more nefarious origins than a phone company demanding _more power!_ from increasingly compact batteries.

Through the lingering expression of distress on his face, Illya managed to look mildly aghast. "My phone exploded?"

"'Fraid so, comrade."

Illya gave a small sigh. "I… I'd have liked to see that."

Napoleon chuckled at his disappointment. "I don't suppose you have any idea how long you've been, uh…"

"Panicking for no apparent reason? No, I'm afraid not."

"And you still don't have any idea of any apparent reasons?"

"Well—I-I'm not sure, but—no."

"What are you not sure about?"

"It—maybe I misremember."

"How about you tell me what you think you misremember?"

Illya snuffled and clumsily swiped at his eyes. "In the store, I thought I heard a familiar voice. And I thought a voice woke me up and started this. But perhaps those were a figment of my imagination. Obviously, my body has been playing rather cruel tricks on me lately."

The first word that popped into Napoleon's mind was "trigger" and the second, third, and fourth words were "T.H.R.U.S.H. psychological manipulation".

"Well, analyzing stuff is in your wheelhouse, isn't it, Mr. Doctoral Research?" Napoleon said lightly. "Let's try to examine this a little, and maybe it will help make this not happen again. Whose voice did you think you heard?"

Illya took a moment to think and slow his breathing. "A professor. The professor who showed me the… holiday specials."

"Hm. And when exactly did you know this professor?"

"From two years ago to this past semester. I was at Cambridge—that's odd."

 _That's promising_. Napoleon held him a little closer. "What's odd?"

"It… that timeframe coincides with the year that I experienced panic attacks. From two years to one year ago."

"Hm. So, the voice you think sounds like that professor… what did it say? Can you remember?"

Illya furrowed his brow in concentration, which prompted Napoleon to use the sleeve of his robe to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. The blond flailed slightly in an uncoordinated effort to swat the helping arm away. "Don't fuss so much."

"Okay, I'll just fuss a little. It's good that you're well enough to spurn my kindness."

Illya exhaled. "I can't remember what the voice said. Perhaps I am finally losing my tentative grasp on reality. I am hearing voices that do not exist, apparently."

"The 'drama queen' look doesn't suit you, my friend. You're not losing your mind."

"Well, I'm not feeling particularly sane at the moment."

"Illya. You had a long flight to someplace you've never been, I outed you to my parents, and you've had two panic attacks—all within the past twenty-four hours. I guarantee you, nobody would feel particularly sane after all that." He pressed a kiss to the side of the blond head. "Wanna try to get some more sleep?"

A nod.

"Okay." Napoleon started to get up.

"No!"

He stopped as Illya grasped the back of his shirt.

"Stay… please." Illya released his grasp and shifted his eyes away.

Napoleon settled back in his spot. "Okay, but I thought you said you couldn't sleep with someone else in the room."

Illya tutted a bit, although it wasn't as contemptuous as he'd likely intended. "You did not listen well. I said that I cannot sleep with someone I do not completely trust in the room." He screwed his mouth to one side. "My eyesight is still not normal yet, but I can see that your smile is unnecessarily large."

"I happen to think it's necessarily large."

"It is not. To be perfectly clear about it, I am only asking you to stay to sleep, not to engage in inappropriate behavior."

Napoleon gave a melodramatic gasp and placed a delicate hand to his heart. "I wasn't smiling because of that, you pervert. I was smiling because you trust me."

"In that case, it was still an unnecessarily large smile."

"Are you sure you invited me to sleep and not to spend the rest of the night bickering?"

"I might not sleep. You can sleep and I shall try to sleep."

"And if you can't sleep, wake me up and we can bicker. But first, nature calls. I'll be right back. Promise."

Grabbing his robe, Napoleon retreated from the guestroom and shut himself into the bathroom, where he set up his communicator for the far-too-many'th time that night. "Open channel S."

 _"Channel S open. What now?"_

"Aw, are you tired of me, Ger?"

 _"Never, babe. Hit me with it."_

"Run a check on American female professors at Cambridge."

 _"Punching above our weight, aren't we, lover?"_

"Check for anyone who was there between zero and two years ago—in physics, mathematics, chemistry, or computer science—with any known association with Illya Kuryakin, and who hosted holiday film screenings for students. I have reason to believe she may be making an effort to remotely manipulate Kuryakin via audio prompts."

 _"Gotcha. How d'you wanna be notified?"_

"Use your discretion, my sweet."

 _"I always do, bebop. Ciao."_

He disassembled the communicator and strapped it back to his ankle, pulling down the elastic cuff of his pajama pants until it was covered, then flushed the toilet and ran the sink faucet for effect. Once he'd counted to twenty, he shut off the water, returned to Illya's room, hung up the robe again, and slid back into bed. It would have been impossible to miss the relieved sigh that his return elicited.

Nice as it was to feel needed, Napoleon's answering sigh was a bit glum. Cuddling like this with the Russian (who was generally slow to initiate physical contact) was lovely, but it was painful to see how severely the panic attacks rattled his normal demeanor.

"Please talk," Illya said quietly, after almost a quarter of an hour of what Napoleon had assumed was contented silence. "I need a distraction and can't seem to handle much in the way of mental arithmetic just now."

Napoleon hummed and nodded. "So, earlier—the thumping on the wall. Was that—?"

"Intentional? Yes. As my voice and legs were not working, that was the only remaining option. In a moment of cowardice, I selfishly woke you up because I wanted your company."

Napoleon tutted. "Hey, don't be mean."

"Mean?"

"Yes, you're being mean to my dear friend Illya, and I won't stand for it."

Illya scoffed softly just as Napoleon felt his communicator vibrating at his ankle. He ran through a couple of half-baked plans before settling on, "Why don't I grab a DVD from my room, bring it in here?"

Solo could almost feel the frown pressing into his shoulder. "I thought screen time was more effective in stimulating the brain than in calming one down."

"Well, I'm not going to keep talking with you when you'll probably keep putting yourself down, so the alternative is to just watch something together." Smirk. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer I sing to you or read you a bedtime story."

The blond head untucked itself from under Napoleon's chin, and Illya pulled back enough to display his expression of distaste. "Go get a DVD."

"I knew you'd see it my way. Back in a flash."

And so Napoleon grabbed his robe again and returned to his own room, closing the door behind. He took a moment to take the gun from his robe, discard the robe on the bed, and strap the gun to his free ankle before taking the communicator from the other leg and setting it up.

"Solo."

 _"Listen, my child, and you shall hear—of who had access to Kuryakin for years."_

Napoleon drew in a breath as Gerry paused for dramatic effect.

 _"The professor you were looking for is Dr. Egret, a suspected T.H.R.U.S.H. associate. She taught at Cambridge up through this past spring semester, then resigned suddenly. Currently whereabouts unknown."_

He was surprised he didn't hear the sound his heart made as it dropped to the floor.

 _"The CEA's out on some undercover thing, but I passed all this along to Waverly and he has officially assigned you to keep an eye on Kuryakin. Crane should be back soon and she'll get right to work on how things'll be handled when you get back to the Big Apple._

" _In the meantime, you've also been given a couple of guys to keep an eye on you and yours as a precaution. There aren't any U.N.C.L.E. agents in the area, but there's a guy who sometimes lends us a hand: an ex-cop from England named Jakes will keep an eye on the house. He just so happens to have an active-duty cop friend—our buddy Endeavour Morse—visiting him, so Morse will assist Jakes. They're armed in case of emergency."_

"British police don't use guns all that much. Are they, uh…?"

 _"We issued Jakes two handguns. Morse is a good shot and Jakes is passable. We ain't expecting the shootout at the O.K. Corral, bucko. They just have to watch and report. They'll do."_

"Do I at least have some means of contacting them if necessary?"

 _"Scream like a little girl?"_ At Napoleon's distressed noise, Gerry wheezed a laugh and amended, _"I'm pullin' your leg, honeybunch. They're on channel Q."_

Napoleon sighed, half in relief and half still in distress. Normally, he wouldn't mind getting his very own assignment without anybody else to butt in, but this was different. This involved his boyfriend and, by dint of their physical proximity, his parents. He hadn't finished his U.N.C.L.E. training and his ego wasn't quite inflated enough to override his anxiety.

 _"Mr. Solo."_

That got all his attention. Gerry's voice had dropped, and the secretary rarely if ever addressed him formally.

 _"I know you're worried about your people over there, but what you got is what you got, and you only got that 'cuz yours truly happens to like you and decided to pull a few strings. And if you're gonna be the totally rad agent I know you're cracked up to be, you'll learn to work with what you have. Capisci, bello?"_

Napoleon wondered what kind of strings a secretary was able to pull, but agreed, "Capisco. I didn't mean to sound… ungrateful."

 _"You didn't sound ungrateful. You sounded concerned. Now."_ A couple of coughs later, Gerry's voice was back to its normal pitch. _"Put on your big-boy panties and enjoy your weekend."_

"Yes, sir. Or ma'am." Probably a sir, considering the deeper voice he'd just been faced with. Or a postmenopausal ma'am. Napoleon almost sighed again and briefly considered the possibility of setting up a hidden camera in a certain secretarial office. "Thanks, Ger. Solo out."

* * *

Peter Jakes, formerly Detective Sergeant Jakes of the Oxford City Police, spared a glance at his passenger before setting his lips in a grim line and returning his gaze to the road ahead—the dark road ahead. The only light came from the small pickup's headlights illuminating a few feet of Montana highway and whatever moon-glow the clouds allowed through.

Jakes tapped his fingers on the wheel and said in a clipped tone, "Don't look at me that way."

The redhead in the passenger seat folded his arms, frowned at the windshield, considered denying having been looking at the driver at all, and settled on an overly casual, "What way, particularly?"

"Come off it, Morse, you know well enough. Let's have the row now, then, seeing as we'll not have the opportunity once we've got there."

Morse made a face and shrugged. "What's there to row about? The fact that you left the dangers of life as a policeman to marry the woman you love… moved out to Montana to live in peace with your wife and child… started moonlighting with an international spy agency—"

"Picking up a bit of change by doing the occasional bit of recon and providing security detail is hardly as hazardous as police work."

"Ah, of course, so that's why we're armed!"

"We're not going to _use_ them!"

"Then why do we _have_ them?"

"I dunno—American gun culture? Form's sake? All I know is they furnished me with two handguns of my choosing and, in the eighteen months I've worked for them, I've never had to fire once."

Morse made a disgruntled sound and looked out the passenger window. Not that there was much he could see, aside from his own reflection and the dark sky behind the darker shadow of a tree-line.

Jakes reached into his coat pocket to extract his cell phone and unlocked the screen, grateful that his companion was too busy glowering elsewhere to notice he was fiddling around with a device while driving. He tapped around a few moments before nudging Morse. "Here. Have a gawp at the folks we're keeping our eyes on."

Morse's upper lip curled slightly.

"Shut up. I barely took my eyes off the road and there's nothing to crash into anyhow."

Another scoff, but Morse took the phone notwithstanding and flipped back and forth between the two pictures: a family portrait-style photo of an older couple with a younger man standing behind them, and a headshot of a young blond man. "Huh."

"What?"

"Illya."

Jakes shot a brief look to his side. "Did I black out and give you names at some point?"

"No. The two younger guys… I ran into them at the market that I stopped off at before getting out to your place."

"Really?"

"Illya was having a panic attack… does that have something to do with why we're out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?"

"Beats the hell out of me. All I know is we're to keep our eyes peeled for anybody approaching the house and call in to the young man in the family photo if we see anything suspicious. That one's called Solo."

"So they're staying in the house all weekend or are we tailing them wherever they may go?"

"The hope is they stay homebound, but we'll tail 'em if necessary."

"What if some of them stay and some of them go?"

"That's why we're two people, Morse. In that event, you'd stay at the house and I'd stick with the brat who had the bright idea of gallivanting around."

Morse handed back the phone with a gloomy, "Their faces have been adequately imprinted upon my brain, I believe. What the hell am I doing?" he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands.

"Helping a friend. And an uncle."

"Being an idiot, that's what I'm doing."

"Possibly. But your idiot friend appreciates it."

"My idiot friend better appreciate it." Morse slouched down a bit and folded his arms again. "Wake me when we're there. I'll keep watch on my own for a bit once we're arrived, if you like, so you can get a little nap in then."

* * *

"Open channel Q."

 _"Jakes here."_

"Ah, yes, a good morning to you, Jakes! Solo here."

 _"Pleasure to meet you."_

"Just thought I'd introduce myself and ask if you fine fellows needed anything. Coffee, a bite to eat…."

 _"We're sorted, thanks."_ A muffled voice said something from the other end, then Jakes added, _"My stakeout buddy wants to say hi, too."_

 _"Uh, yes, um, hello, Mr. Solo. Morse here. I'm not sure how this espionage thing generally works so I apologize if this sounds a bit creepy but, uh, how's your friend doing now? Illya?"_

Napoleon gave a light laugh. "You don't know from creepy, Sergeant. After you generously helped us out, I had a background check run on you. Anyway, Illya's holding up. He's an Oxford man, too. Seems you're a resilient lot."

 _"Yes. Well. Hopefully_ _ **he**_ _managed to graduate."_

"Oh. Sorry." Crap.

 _"Don't be. Morse out."_

 _"Jakes here."_

"I hope I didn't piss off your buddy too badly. I only knew that he was a cop in Oxford, not that he went to the school and—"

 _"Nah, he's fine. Us types are used to being offended. Part of the job description for being a copper, you know. Help wanted: must pursue justice, keep the peace, and tolerate insults."_

* * *

"Come on, Illya, look at the stars."

"I have quite enough to occupy my vision without considering the stars, Napoleon."

"But you're not going to see anything like this once we're back in New York and this is our last night here. C'mon, don't miss out."

"Mortal affairs are sufficiently distracting without having to concern myself with the great beyond."

Napoleon made a face. "A proud man is always looking down on things and people. And, of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you."

Illya turned blinking eyes to him. "Who's that?"

"C.S. Lewis."

The blond sniffed and turned away again. "C.S. Lewis can stuff it." His narrowed eyes returned to the American's face as Solo burst into laughter. "What's so funny?"

Napoleon just shook his head and kept laughing, eventually wrapping Illya in a sideways hug. Once he'd gotten enough of a grip on himself to pronounce words again, he chortled, "Oh my god, you proud Slavic sourpuss, I love you."

The narrow eyes blew wide open.

Napoleon forced his remaining chuckles down and smiled, tenderly brushing some yellow hair away from the blue orbs. He pressed a kiss to the spot of forehead he'd revealed, and Illya whipped his face around. The gambit was successful in shielding his flushing cheeks, but his red ears betrayed him.

"So," Illya spoke in an uncharacteristically bright voice, "did you grow up out here?"

"Oh—uh, no." Napoleon drew out his response, seeing as the I-love-you discussion was clearly off the table. Probably for the best. _He's a minor, dammit, shut your pie-hole._ "I was born in Canada and we moved to Kansas when I was little. When I was around twelve, my parents started getting lucky with their investments and we moved to New York. Then—have you seen a show called _Green Acres_?"

Illya shook his head, turning to face straight ahead but occasionally sparing Napoleon a glance out the side of his eyes. Out of consideration for the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Solo, he withheld a snide comment about American children being raised by the television set.

"It's about a big-city businessman who gets tired of the rat race in the city and decides to become a farmer. So, Mom and Dad got tired of urban life and decided they preferred the 'land spreading out so far and wide… keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.'"

"And you?"

Napoleon grinned. "I was more like the big-city businessman's wife: 'darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.' We moved out here when I was sixteen and I hated it."

"You seem to enjoy it now. The driving and the stars, at least."

"I live in the city now," Solo pointed out. "Visiting is fine, but twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five of Nowhere-land isn't for me." He took his arm off Illya's shoulders and was pleased when the Russian looped their arms together to maintain the contact. "Besides, I suppose I have more appreciation for quiet places now, after having been in the Army."

Illya met his eyes. "Do you mind talking about that? I refrained from asking, as I know some people do not have a positive experience with the military."

Napoleon gave his hand a light squeeze. "You can always ask me anything. I simply reserve the right to not answer. What do you want to know?"

"Why did you join? Your Park Avenue tastes hardly seem compatible with army life."

"Part patriotism, part wanting to help people, part mercenary."

"Mercenary?"

"They offer financial assistance for prospective college students and I preferred to earn my own money rather than going on the Mommy and Daddy scholarship."

"You said you had an uncle who helped."

Napoleon smiled. "He helps with living expenses—food, clothes, housing, trips to Montana…." _Does it count as some kind of trafficking that I transported an Illya across state lines?_ His smile tightened a bit.

Illya cocked his head. "Do you think I'm mercenary?"

The smile faded as he raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. What makes you ask that?"

"I show very few signs of affection, yet I maintain a relationship with a wealthy man."

Napoleon opened his mouth.

"And you cannot possibly argue that I was unaware of your financial situation, considering our first date at a ritzy restaurant, and my tagging along with you to your personal tailor, and your flying me out here at your—or at least your uncle's—expense."

"You're showing affection now." Napoleon smiled and nodded down at their linked arms.

Illya frowned. "You did that."

"Au contraire. This was all you, pal."

A couple of blinks later, Illya's ears tinted pink again.

"See? Your body wanted to stay close to me even without your mind getting in on the decision. And we have the same conversations and debates and arguments whether we're at a fancy restaurant or in a dorm room or on a plane or at the library. You're always willing to take me down a peg if I get too full of myself—"

" _If_?"

"See? And you don't dole out compliments lightly." He ran a hand through the blond strands. "That doesn't seem like the behavior of a gold digger to me, mon chou." Another stroke of the head. "Damn, I love your hair."

Illya's darkening expression reflected an internal argument.

"You don't have to compliment me back."

The Russian settled for a flash of a smile and scooted a little closer, then rested his gaze on the silhouette of trees.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a peek at the stars?"

"Quite sure. I am now compelled to actively spite C.S. Lewis."

* * *

April grumbled at her phone.

Mark looked up across the library table at her. "What?"

"Look at the lovebirds."

He took a look at the photo she showed him: a selfie Napoleon had taken of himself with Illya, sitting on the stairs of his parents' house in Montana. Solo, of course, wore a roguish grin. Kuryakin was straight-faced yet obviously snuggled into his boyfriend's shoulder, although he'd certainly find extensive counterarguments to prove that he _was not either snuggling_ and _perhaps an appointment with an optometrist would be in order_.

Slate scoffed. "Typical. Polo lounges in the countryside while you and I do productive shit." He didn't say anything about Illya's also being luxuriating in a rural area, as Solo had primarily invited him to avoid having Kuryakin in the same city as Angelique, sans Solo. ("You could trust April and me to look out for him." "Of course I could trust you, but I trust me more.")

Dancer put her phone away, then froze. "Did you feel that?"

Slate blinked, then his ankle vibrated and he nodded. She got up, closed the door to the Quiet Study Room they were sitting in, and they simultaneously assembled their communicators.

"Slate here."

"Dancer."

" _Crane. My office, tomorrow. 1100 hours. I have your first assignment."_

"Yes, ma'am."

"Understood, Ms. Crane."

" _Crane out."_

As soon as the connection was cut, April squealed and Mark stumbled around the table to grab her up in a hug. By 1100 hours on Sunday, their merriness was contained to April's biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, and Mark's angling his ankle awkwardly and pressing his foot into the floor to keep his toes from tapping.

"I'm assigning the two of you and Solo to monitor Kuryakin. This is not a case of round-the-clock babysitting, but maintain your regular contact and increase contact when it is possible to do so without raising Kuryakin's suspicions. T.H.R.U.S.H. clearly is already aware of your associating with the Russian, so the confidentiality of this mission is low and you can brief Solo on the assignment in any reasonably private setting."

Dancer nodded and Slate provided the "yes, ma'am."

"Based on what we know, it seems that our fine feathered friends want to recruit Kuryakin, perhaps using psychological manipulation to weaken him enough that he will give in more easily. We do not believe they will attempt an abduction—not in the immediate future—but you will, of course, make reports as you glean new information, so we can modify our approach as necessary."

Slate nodded this time and Dancer provided the "yes, ma'am."

Crane reached into a desk drawer and pulled out three wires and a USB, placing them on her desk. Each wire was a different color and had circular, quarter-sized, somewhat translucent fixtures attached to either end. "You have been trained with these, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Slate confirmed. "We both have but Dancer is better with them than I am, ma'am."

"Then Dancer will apply the camera and microphone to the interior doorframe of Kuryakin's dorm room, and Slate will stand watch. I understand Solo and Kuryakin are not due to arrive until late this evening, so get it done before then. I don't expect anybody to listen live at all times, but you two and Solo will split the duty of running through the audio and video every night until further notice."

An hour later, as they approached their target's dorm room door, April commented softly, "Do you feel as icky as I do?"

"For his own safety, it's got to be done," Mark returned in an equally quiet voice, "but yes." He was glad Illya's room was all the way at the end of the hall, so he only had one direction to keep watch in. Slate stopped at a spot just before the door of concern, leaning on the wall to partially block April from anybody who might appear, hopefully enough to give her time to hop to her feet and look generally not suspicious.

Dancer drew the three wires from her coat. She used the first wire as the miniature periscope-like device it was, poking it under the door and peering about the room. Twisting it around, she focused on the side of the doorframe without the hinges, deciding on where to adhere the miniaturized camera and microphone.

She lightly poked at her partner's ankle, silently asking _Clear?_ , and he nodded briefly. The wire with the surveillance camera at the end went in first (success) and the wire with the microphone followed (another success), then she pressed the release buttons to fasten the inobtrusive fixtures to the doorframe—low to the floor to avoid detection, but rotated so the receivers were directed slightly upward.

Slate shuffled his feet and she promptly withdrew the wires, shoved them under her coat, winced at having stabbed herself in the ribs with a couple of wires, and leapt up. Just as another dorm room door was fully opened, she offered to her companion at a normal volume, "Guess he's not back yet."

"Nah, mate, I told you their flight wasn't 'til late," Mark rejoined, and off they went.

* * *

A/N: The guests in this chapter were Endeavour Morse and Peter Jakes from the show _Endeavour_ , which I obviously like given that I felt the need to throw 'em in here. They won't be popping in again so, if you didn't like them, you're in the clear, :)

I don't know Italian or Russian, so I just ran those bits through an online translator-sorry for any mistakes. Also, if my attempts at writing British people's speech set your teeth to grinding, feel free to correct the most irritating errors and I'll try to do better going forward.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Act III: CS Lewis

A/N: Chapter 3 and you're still here! Even if it's because it's laughably bad, I'm glad you find it adequately amusing despite the typos and other errors. Once I've gotten the story done, maybe I'll go back and try to fix it, but for now I've already invested way too much of my life in this thing, so… onward! :D

Beware the obligatory Napoleon-invading-Russia joke (it was too easy I couldn't resist sorry), and the general terribleness of this chapter. I tried to make it less terrible but my writing skillz go only so far, and I'm not sure whether I improved it or just made it longer and worse.

Thanks for reading and enjoy(?)…

* * *

Act III:

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one."

 _November_

There were ups and downs to this sort of thing. Always were. And when you got past the Ickiness Factor, it was really just your run-of-the-mill surveillance assignment, sort of.

There were your boring parts.

Six hours and forty-two minutes of Kuryakin sleeping every night.

Fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, fifty squats, fifty burpees, fifty lunges—first thing in the morning, then again just before bed.

A lot of reading, writing, typing, and pacing about the room deep in thought.

Many hours of nothing as the student went to classes and other activities.

Then there were your awkward parts.

Kuryakin never left the room in anything but street clothes—not even padding down the hall to the bathroom and showers in his sleepwear—so he changed from clothes to pajamas and from pajamas to clothes in his room. When this routine prompted Solo to almost choke on air the first time he saw it, the others mercifully took on the reviewing of recordings made whenever the subject tended to enter a state of undress. After several nights in a row of Kuryakin sleeping in boxer shorts and a mammoth t-shirt, Solo concluded that the proper pajama set his boyfriend had worn in Montana had been used exclusively for that trip, to keep his bony limbs hidden from the world.

Surveillance also revealed Kuryakin's ringtones. Outside of his room, he kept his phone on mute. Inside, he turned up the volume, and it turned out that the alert for a text from Napoleon was an excerpt from one of the angry-type rock songs Kuryakin sometimes listened to—the part that went _"Gimme love—I don't need it, but I'll take what I want from your heart"_. Solo wasn't quite sure what had prompted that choice, but his instinct was to feel distinctly not flattered.

There were also your frightening parts.

Several times a week, Kuryakin would suddenly stop whatever he might be doing, get into bed, and wrap his blanket around his shoulders; even after listening to the audio multiple times, there seemed to be none of the audio prompts U.N.C.L.E. was so wary of regarding Kuryakin's case. Sometimes he would just sit there, staring blankly forward and breathing very slowly. Others, he ducked his head and fisted his hair in ungentle hands. Once he started crying, eventually switching to rocking back and forth, singing the multiplication table until he had calmed down enough to go back to studying. When that happened, Dancer had to spend a solid hour talking Solo out of bringing up the incident with his boyfriend. ("I know it sucks, but it's a covert operation, Napoleon. Just keep being a nice guy and maybe he'll open up about it on his own.")

And to everyone's great relief, there were your fun parts.

The trio of trainees couldn't resist piling in front of the screen whenever Kuryakin cleared off his desk and carefully placed an open-topped metal box (painted brown as if to mimic cardboard) right in the center. The Russian would proceed to place something inside the box, and it was something different every time.

A zoo's worth of pom-pom animals he'd spent the previous evening creating, complete with googly eyes.

A few water balloons.

A half dozen doughnuts.

On went the safety glasses, then Kuryakin spent a few minutes tinkering on something outside of the camera's vision. The whatever-it-was joined the stuff inside the box, and he grabbed his phone. Their subject then set the desk chair a couple of feet away from the desk, stood up on said chair, and peered into the box from what was apparently a safe distance.

After a couple of clicks to the phone screen, a quiet thump or sizzle came from the rattling box, along with sparks or a colorful puff of smoke, prompting Kuryakin to beam in exultation. The exception was on Doughnut Day, as the blond instead burst into peals of laughter and spent the next hour scrubbing cream and jelly and powdered sugar and chocolate off the walls and ceiling.

Amusing as all that was, however, they had to acknowledge that it was a bit of an issue that Kuryakin was setting off explosions in his dorm room.

Highly-controlled, virtually silent explosions… generated by unknown materials and with remote detonation capabilities… whose sparks and smoke were gone within seconds… and which went unnoticed by the building's smoke alarms and sprinkler systems. Perhaps Kuryakin had messed with those before they started monitoring his room but, whether or not that was the case, his little inventions could possibly hold some appeal for certain organizations.

In addition to this, it was sobering that Illya was much stronger than he claimed: perhaps what Intelligence had suggested were his "past" athletic abilities weren't so past after all. He turned down his friends' invitations to go for a run on the grounds that he was a poor excuse of an athlete, then went home and tossed off a few sets of calisthenics with nary a breath of exertion.

His habit of changing clothes in full view of the camera also revealed a frame that, notwithstanding its rather extreme slimness, appeared mostly to be lean muscle. Perhaps T.H.R.U.S.H. believed he was still in top martial-arts-and-gymnastics condition and, besides his computer skills, anticipated being able to send him out into the field.

It was this revelation of hidden athleticism that emboldened Slate to nag at Kuryakin until he finally caved in and agreed to join him, Solo, and Dancer for a jog at Central Park. At first Illya demurred to the idea of being allowed to set the pace but, soon enough, he relented and took off.

"You'll not escape us that easily, Mr. Kuryakin!" Mark exclaimed, putting on a burst of speed in an effort to match Illya's.

From somewhere just outside Napoleon's field of vision, Illya's voice drifted back faintly, "I already seem to have done so."

Napoleon briefly made a half-hearted attempt to join the other boys, but quickly gave up and slowed down to keep pace with April. The pair jogged together in companionable silence until April fixed him with a dirty look.

"What?"

"Slowpoke."

"I'm not any slower than you are."

"I have menstrual cramps and forgot to take medicine for it. What's your excuse?"

"A soldier never leaves a man—er, non-gender-specific person behind."

"Cute. But T.H.R.U.S.H. isn't quite so sentimental." She took another moment to catch her breath, then increased her jogging pace. "Onward, soldier."

* * *

 _Geography of Dark Tourism, course description: A course on sites such as cemeteries, prisons, scenes of tragedy and torture, and other locations that people find macabre. Presents different interpretational methods and rationales, as well as discussion of visitor motivations._

Napoleon had rather suspected upon enrolling in the course that "new digs for an evil lair" would not be one of the visitor motivations to be discussed, and he was not disappointed in that suspicion. It was, nonetheless, one of the courses that U.N.C.L.E. had listed as being potentially relevant to his future career, and he accordingly applied himself to research projects focused around past or (suspected) present hideouts for certain nefarious personalities.

"There you are, Napoleon! It's been positively _ages_ since we've been together!"

Speaking of nefarious personalities, there was Angelique, waiting for him in the hall as he exited the classroom. He rather envisioned her having Čachtice Castle lovingly restored in the memory of a charming old-timey countess rumored to have had a penchant for bathing in the blood of her servant girls.

Napoleon smiled as she took his arm, and they chatted as they proceeded slowly down the hallway. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my dear Angelique."

"Oh, is that why you took that horrid little friend of yours to Montana? To become fonder of me? How sweet of you!"

"I always aim to please, but I must confess to a smidge of confusion."

"Only a smidge? Darling, you underestimate yourself." She patted the arm that she'd linked through his. "Do tell."

"If my friend is so horrid, why did you go to him to ask for my number instead of coming directly to me?"

"He didn't give a full account of our little meeting?" She tutted a few times. "Well, that reticence is certainly a habit he'll have to be broken of. Thank you for telling me."

He smiled wider. "You're very welcome. In the interest of your not being reticent, why don't you fill in the blanks for me?"

"Oh, of course. I wanted him to get thinking about life beyond the academic. He seems a tailor-made mad genius and, as you know—" She leaned in very close to finish the sentence. "—we're always hiring."

He leaned even closer toward her as they took the stairs to the first floor. "And what, pray, did the mad genius think of your offer?"

Angelique scoffed. "He threatened to sic some cantankerous old professor on me and scurried off into his ivory tower. Really, darling, you must teach him some manners."

His gasped in mock horror. "I should say so! When would you like him to be all mannered-up and ready to go?"

"Not for a while, I suppose. For some reason, the little wretch doesn't seem to like me very much."

Another gasp. "You don't say!"

"I do say. And if he dislikes me, he'll absolutely despise my coworkers. And a grumpy mad genius does so tend to be an unproductive mad genius, you know."

He kind of wished she'd stop calling the Russian mad. "Indeed. Hmm…." Napoleon transitioned into mock pensiveness. "Why do you get to break him of his reticence while I'm stuck with providing lessons in deportment?"

"Well, we certainly don't want him to be anything _but_ reticent until he's safely on my side."

"Ah, yes. How silly of me not to think of that."

She patted his arm again. "There, there, Napoleon, you musn't be too hard on yourself."

"You always know how to make a man feel better, Angelique."

"In many ways, darling. Speaking of…." She brought them to a halt near the exit and the curve of her lips changed slightly, her pout less exaggerated.

He recognized that expression from their last two encounters, which had also been their first two encounters, which had been in the wake of a couple of missions he'd shadowed a senior agent on. And which had ended up in a hotel room with 1800 thread-count sheets, 1 bed, and 0 clothes. And so he was faced with the unusual task of turning down a lady's offer.

"Alas, my love, it is not only my horrid friend who has a cantankerous professor. Homework beckons."

Angelique frowned, pouted, and smirked in rapid succession. "Homework, or is your little friend…" She traced a finger around his lips. "…a little more than a friend?"

Napoleon affected a wounded expression. "My life is about more than sex, I'll have you know."

The smirk intensified. "More than sex, you say? Thank you, darling, our little heart-to-heart has been most enlightening." She kissed him on the cheek and took her leave.

He blinked after her. Enlightening? Did he say something important, or was she just trying to get him worried that he had done so? He didn't think he'd said anything that—damn.

That was the problem.

He hadn't said _no._

Solo mentally reran a couple of lines.

 _"Is your little friend a little more than a friend?"_

 _"My life is about more than sex."_

He reran it again, cropping the exchange down to what Angelique might have taken as key points—what she may have inferred or interpreted.

 _"Are you having sex with him?"_

 _"It's about more than that."_

And one more time.

 _"Is he your lover?"_

 _"I love him."_

Napoleon winced. His next debriefing was not going to be fun.

* * *

This was not fun.

"You know that I dislike asking people to repeat themselves, but would you mind saying that again, Solo?"

Napoleon clenched his toes in his shoes and smiled politely. "Not at all, Agent Crane. I misspoke when engaged in conversation with T.H.R.U.S.H. Agent Angelique and seem to have given her the impression that I am in a serious romantic relationship with Mr. Kuryakin."

Crane rubbed her forehead and Solo wished she'd just kill him outright. "And who started that conversation?"

"She did, ma'am." _Please._

"Did you find out anything useful, or was the entirety of the exchange focused around your declaration of undying love for Mr. Kuryakin?"

"She claimed that she offered a position in T.H.R.U.S.H. to Mr. Kuryakin, ma'am." _Kill me._

"Please, Solo, I should think you'd be on a first-name basis with your lover."

"Yes, ma'am." _Please kill me._

She raised an eyebrow and he realized that he should really learn how to say _no, dammit, I'm not desperately in love with him_. "It is true, then? You're involved with the subject you're supposed to be monitoring?"

"Yes, ma'am. Involved but… not a lover in the sense that the word is often used." _Bullet between the eyes, if you don't mind._

"Clarify."

"We're dating but haven't… had relations." _You should probably put another through the heart, to make sure the job's done._

"And you think that is a good idea? Being involved?"

"I'm afraid there isn't a better idea at the moment, ma'am. We started dating before monitoring began, and now it would probably make it more difficult to keep an eye on him if we broke up." _Just be tactful when you notify my next-of-kin._

"That is true." She frowned. "Tell me more about the offer made to Mr. Kuryakin. Did Angelique suggest that he seemed interested? Have you confirmed with him that the offer was made in the first place?"

"Angelique suggested that he showed more disdain for her than interest in taking up the offer. I asked Mr. Kuryakin—"

CEA Crane clucked her tongue.

"— _Illya_ ," he corrected, "and he said that she spoke vaguely to him about working in a place that would allow him unlimited resources and creative freedom. He thought it sounded ominous and said that he was perfectly happy where he was."

"Is there anything else relevant to report?"

"Angelique said that, based on Mr. Ku—"

 _"Ahem._ "

Napoleon broadened his smile and stayed the course this time. "Based on _Mr. Kuryakin's_ disdain for her, ma'am, she does not anticipate his joining T.H.R.U.S.H.'s ranks right away."

She frowned harder, glaring at her desk. "So they're allegedly intent on winning him to their side instead of forcing him." The glare shifted to him. "How long do you suppose their patience will hold out, Solo?"

 _What? Who? You're asking me?_ "I suppose Angelique might try at least once or twice more to talk to him personally," he offered tentatively, "but beyond that, I couldn't guess, ma'am."

Crane nodded. "Probably only once… Angelique tends to bore rather easily. I agree that she'll probably make that one effort, though, in addition to the one she previously made. Of course, now that she knows you have _feelings_ for Mr. Kuryakin—"

He clenched his toes again.

"—perhaps they'll kidnap you and him together. They might threaten you with bodily harm to make him do what they want." She tapped her fingers on the desktop until she decided, "Stay the course in your relationship with Kuryakin: don't break up, don't get more serious. We can't risk rocking the boat and tipping him toward Angelique."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Notify me the next time Angelique makes contact with him, and we'll proceed from there. Dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am." He stood up and headed to the door, marveling at having survived this incident.

"And, Solo…"

 _Dammit_. Solo turned around.

"If you can't resist getting more serious, at least use protection."

He wished HQ hadn't been so enthusiastic about investing in automatic doors. It would have been gratifying to slam something shut.

* * *

"I have a video chat scheduled with my parents now."

Napoleon stood up from his perch on the bed in Illya's room, but the blond seated at the desk motioned him to sit down again.

"Since you introduced me to your parents, I will introduce you to mine, if you don't mind—"

Napoleon rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"—and as long as you behave yourself and do nothing to imply we are more than friends."

"I shall be the very definition of discretion."

Illya looked somewhat doubtful. "Stay out of my shot until I introduce you." He turned on the computer, then turned back to Napoleon. "Perhaps I should tell you that they are not Mr. and Mrs. Kuryakin. My mother uses her maiden name and you may address her as Professor Balakhonova. She lives in Russia but is Ukrainian by birth and will not appreciate it if you call her a Russian. My father is Dr. Kuryakin. He is Russian."

Solo raised his brows. First, he repeated _Balakhonova_ to test it out on his tongue, then he asked, "And what might they be professors-slash-doctors of?"

"Professor Balakhonova is a mathematical physicist and Dr. Kuryakin studies physical chemistry." He made a _shush_ gesture with his hand, then opened his video chat app and pressed the Call button.

Two people appeared on the screen moments later and, from his view off to the side, they struck Napoleon as being rather tall: despite seeming trim enough, they had to sit very close together to stay within the screen. Any doubts as to whether they were Illya's biological parents, however, were dispelled through other similarities in their appearances. The brown-haired man's face was quite reminiscent of the younger man's, and the woman seated by him had Illya's hair and eyes.

Just as the constant flow of presumably Russian words set Napoleon's eyes to glazing (the rapid pace of the conversation was more akin to a fast-forwarded debriefing than a family meeting), Illya suddenly switched to English. "Mama, Papa—" (For some reason, Napoleon thought those words coming from his sarcastic boyfriend were sort of adorable.) "—now I would like you to meet one of the friends I told you about."

Taking his cue, Napoleon entered the frame and waved. "Hello, Professor Balakhonova, Dr. Kuryakin. It's an honor to meet you."

 _"You are one of the first friends our Illyusha has made,"_ Prof. Balakhonova said with something almost approaching a smile on her face. _"I hope you take your role seriously."_

"Oh, I am very serious about Illya, Professor. Ow!" Napoleon leaned over and rubbed his side, just below his ribcage where the blond had prodded at him with a knuckle.

Illya spared him a bored glance. "Did I ever happen to mention that I am a Russian junior national champion in taekwondo?"

 _"And two-time champion in judo,"_ Dr. Kuryakin put in with something almost resembling pride in his voice.

Napoleon grimaced. Even though the knuckle-prodding had been more surprising than painful, he new that a deeper or sharper blow would have been quite accurately directly to a kidney. He told his boyfriend, "No but, based on your timing, I assume that's something you'd like me to bear in mind."

They exchanged some more pleasantries—Solo's subject of study, Prof. Balakhonova's subject of study, Dr. Kuryakin's subject of study—chatted a bit about what it was like living in New York City, and eventually Balakhonova commented, _"Illyusha, you look a bit pale. Perhaps a short walk would do some good. Get blood circulating."_

Illya rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like a disgruntled teenager. "I assure you that I am no more pale than is normal. Perhaps I shall go visit with April." He turned to Napoleon and explained, "They want to talk to you alone." Frigid glare. _Watch your mouth._

"Well, I hope I'm not in trouble," Napoleon said lightly. _Best behavior, I promise._

As soon as Napoleon waved bye-bye to Illya and turned back to the screen, Balakhonova spoke again. _"You are aware that our Illyusha has only just turned eighteen?"_

Solo mentally cringed, but kept up his pleasant expression and nodded. "Ah, yes. The little sneak didn't tell us he'd had a birthday until it had already passed so, when we went down to Connecticut to spend American Thanksgiving with April's family, we had a mini belated-birthday celebration."

Dr. Kuryakin looked as if he was considering the possibility of being pleased at the birthday story, while Professor Balakhonova ignored the thing to press on with, _"And what might be your age?"_

"Twenty-five. Forgive me but I don't see why—"

 _"Do you make a habit of dating teenagers?"_

Napoleon's easy smile twitched. "Of course not, but I still don't see—"

Dr. Kuryakin's eyes shifted skyward briefly. _"What my wife is clumsily attempting to insinuate is we believe you are dating our son and we think you are a bit old for him."_

"Ah. Now I see."

 _"You do not deny it?"_

"You've not given me a chance to, Doctor."

 _"Here is your chance."_

Napoleon glanced at the door. "I can't. He didn't want you to know, but I can't sit here and lie to you." Well, he could and possibly should, but he had an instinct for who would (and who wouldn't) buy whatever lies he came up with. That instinct was telling him that Illya's parents would believe they were dating regardless of what they were told, so it would probably go over better if he came clean about it.

 _"As my husband said,"_ Prof. Balakhonova resumed calmly, _"we believe you are too old for our Illyusha. He tells us you are well-educated. A man of the classics. Surely you can appreciate that manners dictate you reconsider 'having a fling', as it were, with a young person whose parents disapprove of you."_

Napoleon's back stiffened as the casual charm of his smile increased proportionately. "At some level, yes. I can comprehend the idea. However, Illya seems to approve of me, if the fact that my internal organs remain undisturbed is any indication. And perhaps _you_ can appreciate the distinction between a fling and a relationship. As far as I'm concerned, he and I are 'having a relationship', as it were."

The parents glanced at each other for a moment. After a brief conversation of arched eyebrows, frowns, nods, and shrugs, the husband took the next argument.

" _Illya is intellectually advanced for his age,"_ he piped up. _"That does not mean he is emotionally mature. He is not ready for a relationship."_

"Forgive me, Dr. Kuryakin, but I think that's up to him. And not to toot my own horn, but I'm a pretty easy guy to get along with. Illya sets the relationship pace. I would never push him in a direction he wasn't comfortable with." He held up a finger. "And, uh, forgive me for one more thing but… well, is it only the fact that I'm a few years older than Illya that bothers you?"

Prof. Balakhonova frowned. _"If you are asking whether it bothers us that you are a male, the answer is no. If you are asking whether it bothers us that you are American, the answer is also no. If you cannot reconsider your… relationship for our Illyusha's benefit, perhaps you can at least act in your own interests. There are many things you do not know about him."_

"That isn't a disqualifier for being in a relationship, Professor. From what I've gathered, it's generally more important to grow together and be better people together than to know everything about each other."

 _"He has celiac disease. And he is a psychopath."_

This abrupt outing of one of Illya's psychological diagnoses—and one which Slate had suggested could not be considered definitive—did not particularly endear the parents to Solo. To keep up his end of the conversation, he commented on the part of the revelation that actually had been a surprise, and which he felt somewhat less vile about discussing behind his boyfriend's back. "Celiac's the thing with the gluten, isn't it?"

 _"Yes."_ Balakhonova raised an eyebrow as if she'd abruptly remembered something. _"Call him back."_

Napoleon produced his phone to send a text.

 _Napoleon: You're allowed back in now if you dare …_

About a minute of awkward silence later—a silence filled with Solo attempting to smile, Dr. Kuryakin responding with something that looked more like a toothy grimace than a grin, and Prof. Balakhonova frowning harder—Illya returned and Napoleon slid out of the proverbial pilot's seat. Illya reclaimed his spot and Balakhonova promptly launched into a rapid succession of definitely-not-English words.

"Mama," Illya interjected several times before finding enough of an opening to add, "it is rude to speak Ukrainian in front of someone who does not speak the language."

Dr. Kuryakin smirked. _"You only want Mama to speak English since she cannot shout at you as efficiently in English as she can in Ukrainian or Russian."_

"I am my father's son, Papa. Perhaps we can discuss this later. Is there anything else you should like to talk to both of us about, or shall we arrange for you to scold me some other time?"

 _"We will talk later,"_ Prof. Balakhonova promised. _"And Napoleon: keep in mind the track record that men of your name have with Russia. Good bye."_

The parents' faces promptly disappeared from view and Illya logged out from his end of the connection, remarking mildly, "Melodramatic, are they not?"

Napoleon chuckled and couldn't suppress the wave of passive-aggression that reared its head. "They're something, alright."

Illya shut down the computer, clapped the screen shut, and frowned, "You told them."

"About us? No. They guessed and I didn't want to lie to your parents. I did not tell them: I admitted it to them."

Illya shrugged, so Napoleon assumed he was forgiven. "And then they tried to talk you out of it, yes?"

Nod.

"I suppose they started off with an effort to assert parental authority."

"Something like that."

"They then suggested that your dumping me like the proverbial hot potato would be best for my emotional wellbeing."

Napoleon nodded slowly, brow wrinkling just a bit. "More or less."

"And this was followed by their final appeal that you should, essentially, terminate the relationship to save yourself."

It clicked. Napoleon propped a hand on his hip and used his free hand to shake a finger at the blond. "You were listening in at the door."

"You insult me. I would not be so crude as to stand with my ear pressed against a door." He pushed back from the desk a bit and set himself spinning on the wheeled chair. As he spun around, he explained, "Like anybody with sufficient technical knowledge and a modicum of common sense, I linked my computer to my mobile phone." The spinning slowed. "I loitered in the stairwell and eavesdropped on your delightful banter from there."

Napoleon stopped the rotation by grabbing hold of the armrests on either side of the chair. "Your parents are so desperate that I shouldn't date you, that they're willing to tell me you're a psychopath?"

From his caged-in position, Illya folded his hands over his stomach and stared straight ahead, which landed his gaze squarely on the shirt button three up from Napoleon's waist and was quite effective in keeping most of his facial expression out of the American's view. "Not so desperate as to weave lies out of nothing but… they did exaggerate."

At Napoleon's brief grunt of interest, he continued, "As a child, I exhibited some concerning behaviors. Upon professional consultation, those symptoms proved consistent with psychopathy."

Napoleon tilted his head when Illya stopped speaking. This was a good opportunity to learn more about his boyfriend from the fellow himself. He preferred this way, in fact, since it would give the person in question control over his own narrative. Solo would have to rely on his own instincts to tell if that narrative was honest.

Playing dumb, he prompted, "The implication being that you had psychopathic tendencies as a child? And now…?"

"As a result of the consultation, I embarked upon many years of mental health counseling, and my parents endeavored to be as kind to me as they could, as well as encouraging me to consider the welfare of other people. Continued behavioral therapy sessions suggest that, as more or less an adult, some might justifiably identify in me some… anomalies."

Napoleon did not particularly trust Balakhonova and Kuryakin's tutorials in emotional intelligence based on his limited experience with them. Their interaction with Illya had hardly seemed affectionate, and Balakhonova's repeated reference to him as "Our Illyusha" had seemed more proprietary than tender. Still, perhaps it was a cultural or language gap at play, or maybe frigid efficiency was simply the Kuryakin clan's way of expressing warm feelings.

Deciding that arguing with Illya's version of his parents' kindness would be counterproductive, Solo offered calmly, "So they weren't exaggerating then."

"By dint of their declaring my psychopathy with no qualifications, I believe they exaggerated. Additionally, there is no 'official', internationally-accepted definition of psychopath, and so declaration of one's being the same is, to some degree, subjective."

Keeping his grip on the armrests, Napoleon leaned in for a closer look at Illya's face, which turned down and to one side to keep itself hidden. If he was avoiding eye contact, there was probably something there that Illya did not want him to see. Fear? Anger?

Before the brunet could say anything, the Russian lowered his gaze further and murmured flatly, "Dating an emotionally-repressed grouch with poor manners can hardly be considered the most enjoyable of pastimes. I imagine that throwing in some mental disorder could easily be considered beyond the pale. If you wish to terminate our relationship, I can provide no objections."

Well, that was an unpleasant detour. Napoleon kept his tone even and his hands on the armrests. "There's nothing for you to object to. I don't want to terminate anything. Just…"

Blue eyes flicked up. "Just?"

"Do you _want_ us to break up? I mean, I enjoy being with you, Illya." He proceeded slowly, in the hope of getting through the detour with their relationship intact. "It's just… sometimes I can't tell if you enjoy being with me, as a boyfriend."

"You mean, you think I do not care about you."

"As you heard when I told your parents, I know that, at a minimum, you tolerate me." Napoleon took a deep breath, knowing that Illya would likely prefer if he took the direct route but still wary of causing offense. If the younger man was convinced he was potentially psychopathic, and that this was something worthy of causing the end of their association, he would focus on that concern for the time being. "But if we're bringing psychopathy into this… are we still together because you like me or because it's more convenient for the time being?"

Illya lifted his face and with Napoleon's proximity they were almost nose-to-nose, so he leaned his head back a bit to make it easier to focus his vision. "I went to Montana with you, did I not?"

Not quite seeing what that proved, Napoleon simply blinked.

"I did not particularly wish to go to Montana. I had work to do, air travel is unpleasant, and I was not feeling well at the time—and before you ask, the panic attacks had nothing to do with that."

Napoleon nodded slowly.

Illya let out a displeased huff of breath. "You still do not understand. If I was dating you 'for the heck of it', I would not inconvenience myself. You wanted me to take the trip with you and so, despite not wanting to, I went. Self-expression is not and shall likely never be my forte, and so I find other ways of demonstrating… that I… care."

"Like when you let me decide what TV show to watch, and when I used to drag you to 'insipid' parties?"

"Yes."

Napoleon nibbled at his lower lip, eyes glazing over a bit as his focus shifted somewhere to the right of Illya.

"Napoleon?"

"I appreciate the effort, but—"

"But you cannot stay with an individual who cannot—"

Napoleon's eyes snapped back from the side and he used one hand to grasp Illya by the chin, startling him into silence. "Let me finish before you jump to the wrong conclusion. As I was saying, _I appreciate the effort, but_ I don't want you to continue doing things you don't enjoy just to show you care. You'll end up resenting me, and I'll worry that I'm forcing you into things you don't want."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"We're at an important point in our relationship," Napoleon corrected, removing his chin-grasping hand and stepping backwards a couple of steps to settle on the edge of the bed. "I don't think this is an intractable problem. We can work something out. If you want to."

Illya stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle and frowning at his feet. "Very well. My solution has clearly proven inadequate, so what would you suggest?"

"I don't know. I don't want to suggest something and have you just go along with it."

"At the risk of redundancy, I suggest that we are then at an impasse."

Napoleon brooded for almost a minute. Then he took out his phone and tapped around the screen for several moments. He proceeded to stare at the device for a solid five minutes, at which point Illya's patience wore out and he said sharply, "If you've no ideas—"

Not looking up, Napoleon raised a finger and responded with what sounded like, "Ah-da-da-da!"

Illya puffed out a breath in return and set himself spinning again. When the rotation ended and Napoleon was still deeply involved with his phone, the blond returned to his laptop, figuring he might as well get some work done. It was naturally the very second that the computer came back to life that the American rejoined the world of the living.

"I was looking up psychopathy," the brunet announced.

Not turning around, Illya drawled, "Ah, good. Now you've done an internet search, you are an expert."

"Yes, I know, Mr. Smarty-pants, I know. I just thought I'd try to find some inspiration for an arrangement we might both be able to live with."

"Given the several minutes of devoted effort you put in, one hopes you have not come up empty."

"The internet says psychopaths don't feel bad about lying."

"One does not have to exhibit every symptom to receive the diagnosis, which, again, is subject to variation depending upon the individual making the diagnosis."

"Is a lack of remorse a symptom you exhibit?"

"Generally."

"And may I be so bold as to presume a difficulty in expressing emotion is something else relevant to your case?"

"You may."

"You'd be willing to manipulate my emotions for your own benefit?"

Illya hesitated on that one. "It would depend on how much I would benefit and how damaging the manipulation could prove."

"Was your hesitation just now genuine, or to manipulate?"

"Manipulate."

Napoleon mentally stumbled at the admission, but verbally kept going. "Even though the hesitation was to manipulate, was the response itself honest?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you can be honest with me?"

"I _can_ and I sometimes am, but not as often as I could."

"Do you think you will be honest with me?"

"Not always."

"Could you—"

"How. Do you not. Under _stand_?" With the last syllable, Illya slammed both fists into the desk and whirled to his feet, shoving away the chair he'd been occupying. By the time he turned around fully, Napoleon was on his feet bracing himself as discreetly as he could manage, but Illya stayed by the desk, fists clenching and releasing air almost spasmodically.

"We have just established that I am a remorseless liar," the blond ground out, "and you expect me to respond to this... this _interrogation_ honestly? Are you that impossibly dense? I can lie! I can give you whatever words you want!" His tone turned mocking as his volume decreased further until he was practically hissing, "I love you, Napoleon, of course I'll try to be honest with you."

"Yes, you can lie. With words." Napoleon smiled weakly. "But you can't fake emotions."

The narrowed, glaring eyes widened.

"The only sentiment I've seen you do a good job of faking is indifference."

Illya stared at him for a moment, glanced at the door as if considering a sudden departure, and ultimately dropped back into the chair, turning his back to his companion and swiveling back and forth slightly.

Napoleon reached out to turn the chair, then withdrew his hand and settled for standing a bit closer while letting Illya keep his facial expressions to himself. He tried to keep his voice gentle but not overly so as he said, "You think you've figured me out—that you know how to use me. Maybe you have. But you never considered that _I_ could figure _you_ out."

Illya scoffed. "You think you've accomplished that task?"

"Accomplished? No. Made some headway? Yes. Illya, I can tell your real smile from your fake. Maybe I can't always tell when you're happy but, when you _seem_ happy, I can tell whether it's genuine or an act."

"If you've made such progress on assessing my emotional state, why do you feel the need to quiz me on how honest I can be with you?"

"To make you angry."

No response.

"See? I can manipulate you, too."

"Yes, I see." The lingering ire in his voice was gone, leaving a dull monotone. "Now we can merrily go through life manipulating each other. Charming."

"No. But now you've learned that I'm not some kind of victim."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

Napoleon blinked back his surprise, even though the blond was still not looking at him. Still swiveling to and fro in a narrow arc.

Could Illya have plotted out this entire conversation? Had he been feigning an inability to fake emotions for the past weeks? Was Napoleon being strung along as a fool and a plaything?

No.

He called the bluff.

"You're a genius, Illya. You're clever. But you're not _that_ clever."

No response.

"And you're not that cruel."

Still silence.

"So… bagels, huh?"

Illya finally turned around to raise an eyebrow at the change in topic.

"You're not supposed to eat gluten but you bought seven bagels the day I met you."

"I bought six and the lady at the shop gifted me the seventh. I planned to eat one, as I believed the potential discomforts would be worth the experience of sampling a New York bagel, and offer the rest to other people in the building in order to curry favor with them."

Napoleon grimaced a bit. "And Mark, April, and I threw a wrench into your plan by appropriating the rest of said bagels."

"On the contrary, I seem to have curried quite a bit of favor with you three. You all live in the building, so it still counts."

Napoleon sat down on the bed again. "Why didn't you tell me you have celiac disease?"

Illya smiled. A shark's smile. "It is a weakness. It is always inconvenient and sometimes unpleasant and it controls me. It is another frailty that you have now been witness to, as you were when I had panic attacks in Montana—as you were when I expressed distress over my orientation outside Del Floria's—and as you were just now upon learning of my imperfect mental health. Do you enjoy developing a catalogue of my weaknesses, Napoleon? Do you like my honesty?"

Solo quirked a small grin in return and offered sincerely, "I appreciate the effort." _But not the delivery._ "And nothing you have described is a weakness. They are challenges. You've been making every effort to meet those challenges. Except maybe with the eating-a-bagel-when-you-have-celiac-disease thing."

The shark-toothed grin softened a bit at the response. His tone, similarly, became slightly less sharp—almost the dry inflection that Napoleon recognized as being Illya's version of a joking tone. "If not for the accompanying deficiencies in nutrient uptake I may have been six-foot-five and solid muscle."

This time Solo risked shaking his head in mock pity as he rejoined, "And instead you're five seven and solid muscle."

Illya spared him a withering glance, and Napoleon knew he was in the clear—for now. "I assure you, the only thing solid about this disgraceful excuse for an adult male body is its skeletal structure. Although that, too, is less firm than would be desirable." He turned back to his laptop and continued bitterly, "Would you like more honesty, Napoleon? I was deceiving you when I mentioned being a martial arts champion. That was before I was pulled from participation in such athletic efforts."

Out of the clear again? Napoleon repressed the urge to face-palm and proceeded with caution. "Why were you pulled?"

"Celiac disease is in part characterized by damage to the intestine, resulting in its failure to absorb nutrients, including those vital in building muscle and bone. I suffered several fractures which doctors attributed to weak bones and my own sloppiness, which was brought on by my general fatigue, which may have been associated with anemia. Now the only part of my anatomy that operates at anything approaching full capacity is my brain."

"Let's not underestimate the importance of the brain. Besides, you seemed to manage our little jog with Mark and April pretty well." _And your regular calisthenics routine._

"It is not the same as contact sport, especially competitive contact sport. Or gymnastics."

Solo feigned surprise. "You're a gymnast too?"

"I was."

"I don't suppose you're the junior national champion in that, as well."

"I was."

"If you earned the honor at least once, you keep it forever."

"You have already proven that you can goad me into being angry, Napoleon. I do not enjoy being angry at you and I do not want to yell at you, so please stop attempting to force me back into a rage."

Napoleon frowned at the back of his head. "I'm not goading you; I'm telling you the truth. Hell, it's a complimentary truth!" He sighed a bit. "You're still mad at me."

Illya started typing away at his computer, saying flatly, "Of course not. I was, and now I am not, but I will be if you keep mocking me."

Solo gave a deeper sigh. "Alright, come on." He grabbed the desk chair, pulled it back a bit, and spun Kuryakin around in his seat. "Get up."

Illya looked up dully.

Gesticulating grandly, Napoleon repeated, "Up, up—on your feet. You're moping and feeling sorry for yourself and _obviously_ still angry and we're putting an end to that right now. Up."

Now Illya sighed, thinking that it had been so much easier to mope in peace before he'd let this effusive American into his life. Based on past experience, the most efficient response was generally to go along with whatever Solo wanted, agree that _yes, that was very helpful, thank you_ , and then resume his moping as soon as he was alone again.

So he stood up.

"Thank you. Now flip me."

Well, that was new.

Illya narrowed his eyes. "I beg your pardon."

"You're getting all sulky about not being the athlete you think you should be, so we're going to reaffirm that 'you still got it.' You're a judo champion. Judo involves flipping people." He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Flip me."

Illya shook his head and crossed his arms. "I'll not stoop to physical violence." A pause, and he amended, "I'll not stoop to physical violence against someone I… like. Even if I am still angry with that someone." He had to control a grimace at having admitted his ongoing disgruntlement.

To his credit, Napoleon did not rub it in that he had correctly assessed Illya's lingering anger. Instead, he persisted with, "Think of me as a competitor in a tournament." A second of jazz hands. "Come on, you must've flipped someone sometime to be national champion at it, and they presumably survived the encounter. I've done a dash of martial arts here and there, so I promise I can handle a fall. Let's vent a little frustration, hmm?"

Kuryakin tilted his head a bit, as if considering it, then righted his posture and shook his head again.

"C'mon, flippity-flip." Recalling Illya's having ended his athletic career due to injuries, Napoleon wondered if the refusal was partly out of fear that the former sports champion would hurt himself. After all, while he was a strong runner and could handle strength-building exercises, Illya did not seem to do anything that involved physical contact with another person, as he had pointed out.

Napoleon lowered his arms. "Of course, if you think it would be too hard…"

Next thing he knew, Solo was lying himself back on the floor after having landed on his rear end. He took a second to shake off the surprise and looked to the Russian standing above him.

Said Russian's eyes were glittering with mirth as he positively beamed, "Thank you."

The American quirked a grin. "Anytime."

"I… do feel better, actually." Illya chewed at his lower lip for a moment and the sparkle in his eyes dimmed. "However, much as I enjoyed helping you float through the air with the greatest of ease, I would prefer not to give a repeat performance. I did not hurt you, I trust."

"Only my pride." _And my posterior._

"Your pride or your vanity?"

"Whichever is primarily stored in the gluteus maximus."

Illya offered a hand and Napoleon allowed himself to be helped up, then was startled when the blond reached around the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss—the first that the younger man had ever initiated.

Drawing back a few moments later—just when Solo had regained enough senses to get really into the swing of things, naturally—Illya leaned in again to whisper, "Thank you for not leaving me."

Napoleon grinned lopsidedly and reached to place his hands around his companion's waist, but was promptly grabbed by the shoulders, spun around, and pushed toward the door.

"Now go away and let me get some work done."

* * *

Napoleon opened the door.

Mark looked up.

Napoleon hobbled in.

Mark's eyebrows went up.

Napoleon closed the door and frowned.

Mark closed his textbook and smirked.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, it's not what you're thinking."

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up." Mark feigned resumption of his schoolwork but, when Napoleon simply grabbed a book and flopped back onto his bed, offering no explanation in the process, Mark leaned way back in his chair and lifted his chin until he was looking at his roommate upside down. "For the record, what is it you think I thought and what actually happened?"

Napoleon spared a glance in his direction before returning to the book. "If you don't know what I think you thought, I don't think I should put those thoughts in your head."

"What I'm thinking now is I wanna punch you."

No response.

"You're holding your book wrong side up." Mark leaned forward again and said to his homework, "If you were nice, maybe I'd've told you that Intelligence got another titbit of intelligence on Kuryakin."

Napoleon looked up, just as a USB dropped into his lap.

Mark's hands returned to the desk, back still turned to the bed as he added, "And if I weren't so put off by your bad manners I'd further tell you that the intelligence is in the form of documents freshly processed through Translation."

Napoleon's thankfulness was expressed in the form of his saying, "What actually happened is Illya demonstrated a judo flip on me."

Mark made a rather high-pitched noise in his effort to hold in a laugh. "If that token of gratitude had any sort of effect on me," the Brit said, getting up and fiddling around the dresser, "I'd bring the stupid computer over for you." He shut the drawer and tossed the laptop over to Solo.

Napoleon caught it in both hands and flashed a grin. "Hey, before I start in on this, can I ask you, O Lofty Student of Psychology, what you think of the psych people at the office?"

"'Course you can, Polo." Mark went back to his schoolwork.

Solo rolled his eyes and specified, "Okay, then, I'm asking you now. What do you think of them?"

Slate spun around, grinning. "In what capacity? As experts regarding the human mind or as people to play videogames with? Doc Boateng slays in World of Warcraft, by the way."

"As people who can be trusted to give Illya an accurate assessment of his mental health and provide or recommend treatment accordingly," Napoleon returned bluntly.

The grin vanished. "That judo demonstration… he didn't attack you, did he?"

A quick shake of the head. "No. We, ah, had a bit of a tiff and I suggested rather insistently that he work off some lingering resentment by flipping me. It was my idea, promise."

Mark folded his arms. "You also promised that this semester you'd make your bed every morning." He shot a pointed look at the distinctly unmade bed beneath his roommate.

Napoleon pulled a face. "I make it every other day. I'm working my way up." Getting serious again at Mark's dissatisfied expression, he added, "If you don't believe me, you can have the honor of reviewing the footage from his room tonight."

Mark sighed. "I will, but I believe you. Since I'll be reviewing it anyway and might not be able to resist listening to the audio at regular speed, why don't you clarify why you want our psych people to work with him?"

"Try to resist," Napoleon said drily. "The basic idea is that he seems to be stuck on one of the diagnoses we heard about last month. I'm not sure if it's because he thinks it's the most likely, or because he was told it was most likely, or because it's what scares him the most.

"In any case, I want him to get the most confident diagnosis possible, so he can work on it and not feel like he's some kind of freak or a menace to society. I know we know that he's been getting some sort of mental health help but, based on the way he was acting, I don't think he's satisfied with where he's at right now." Recalling some of their less comfortable episodes of monitoring Illya's private life, he grimaced. "I'm not sure I'm satisfied with it, either."

"Our psych people are flipping amazing. Even if they can't work with Illya directly, I'm sure I could coax a referral to an equally amazing outsider out of them."

"Thanks. It might take a while for me to work around to raising the topic with Illya, so just talk to them when you can and I'll let you know when he might be ready to make an appointment."

"Will do, Polo."

Solo turned his attention to the stupid computer—"stupid", that is, in the same way that other devices were called "smart", as this device offered no capacities other than on/off, display documents, delete documents. No internet capability, no wi-fi, no document-editing. That was the kind of simplicity Napoleon could get behind, considering that he was a person who had sincerely benefited from the suggestion of _try turning it off and on again._

USB in.

Only one document present.

Open file.

 _According to classified documents from Interpol and law enforcement agencies of Australia, Austria, Canada, El Salvador, Morocco, Romania, Russia,—_

Damn.

— _South Africa, Swaziland, Switzerland, Tunisia, Ukraine, the United Kingdom,—_

Had someone Googled "countries of the world" and just started typing?

— _and the United States,—_

Thank god.

— _Kuryakin is believed to be responsible for multiple security breaches of internal documents for several private corporations. The documents provided evidence of illegal or legally questionable business activities and were posted online for public view._

Napoleon managed not to cackle.

 _The breaches took place over several years, starting when Kuryakin was twelve years of age, and were not discovered until he was fifteen. Given his status as a minor, his name was not released in press reports of the breaches and he was spared prosecution under the condition that he would not continue the offenses. He appears to have complied with the condition._

Following was a listing of affected companies, and Solo recognized more than a few as shell corporations for T.H.R.U.S.H. activities. Once he'd gotten his fill of the document, he asked if Slate had gotten a look yet and, upon receiving a reply in the affirmative, he deleted the file, removed the USB, and shut down the stupid computer.

"Safe to say we know why the Thrushes are after him, I suppose," Solo mused. "Maybe they're especially bent on winning him over since they know he's starting off with a less-than-stellar opinion of them."

"Agreed." Turning around, Slate informed him, "Our beloved CEA feels it's time to step up our babysitting of Kuryakin, in anticipation of Angelique slithering up to him again." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a plastic baggy filled with what looked like pins for sewing. "First of December, we're to start looking out for any chance to slip into his room and stick these trackers into his trainers."

"Tomorrow?"

"That's the first, December."

"That's a Friday." Solo tapped at his chin in thought. "He spends most Friday afternoons at the library."

"Yeah." Slate rummaged around the desk drawer for a moment and came up with an empty plastic baggy, into which he poured about half of the trackers. "I already gave some to Dancer." He reached way over to hand one of the baggies to Solo. "We were thinking she and you could stand watch at the building entrances while I slip into his room at 1500 hours to take care of it, but we'll all keep some of the things on us in case the day don't go exactly as planned."

"Who'll be tracking him?"

"Crane says we have enough to do, what with monitoring his room and the usual Uni business. He'll be tracked from HQ, and only if necessary. The trackers won't be activated until we get the sneaking suspicion that he's in trouble." Pause. "Well, he's already in trouble since T.H.R.U.S.H. is after his tail. Trackers'll be activated when we get the sneaking suspicion that he's in imminent danger. Unfortunately, we can't spare anyone to actively monitor his whereabouts in real time."

Napoleon sighed and pocketed the trackers. "I wish we could just let Illya in on it," he grumped. "At least part of it, you know? Make sure he's on his guard. He's no idiot and he's no weakling."

"As demonstrated by your damaged derriere. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he's always on his guard." Mark gave him a look. "If you're thinking of going rogue and telling him anyway—"

"Perish the thought, my friend." He flashed a half-hearted grin. "I don't have enough clout to get away with disobeying orders."

Mark smirked. " _Yet_."

Napoleon's grin was no longer so half-hearted.

* * *

Illya managed about two hours of studying before pesky emotion-driven thoughts butted in and banished the pursuit of productive things. Unsurprisingly, this bout of mental uselessness was sparked by Napoleon's goodnight text, accompanied by the reminder to himself that he could neither afford to completely lose his soul to the American, nor be thoughtless enough to drag Solo down: _"I'll take what I want from your heart and I'll keep it,"_ the ringtone sang.

Bracing himself for the affectionate sentiment delivered over the phone was a pointless effort, but he did so nonetheless as he scooped up the device from his desk.

 _Napoleon: Sleep well, my heart_

Categorizing Solo's texts was always a trial but, in the wake of their confrontational episode earlier, Kuryakin was inclined to place this one on the acceptable side of "sappy". Considering he'd come perilously close to socking Napoleon in the jaw a few short hours ago, he thought it was quite big of Solo to offer an endearment.

In return for that generosity, Illya tapped open the emoji menu and cringed at the assortment of overly cute cartoons. He picked out an owl since that seemed relevant to the late hour, wondered why it was so hard for him to express emotions even with emojis, then added a yellow heart to the rear of the owl, hit Send, and turned off his phone for the night.

If Napoleon asked about it tomorrow, he could say he confused the yellow heart for the full moon emoji and sent it by accident. In fact, that was probably what he would say if so confronted, even though he knew that his nothing-but-kind boyfriend deserved more and he had promised himself to at least attempt to be more honest and open with the American.

And there was really no rational justification for him not to be honest, as his occasional efforts to be forthcoming had gone well enough.

One such incident was a few weeks back, when he and Napoleon were returning to the dorms after a walk. Their route took them directly past the pharmacy Illya used and he dared to ask the American if he'd mind if they stopped in to pick up a couple of prescriptions.

Not that he explained what the prescriptions were for, of course, but letting Solo in on their existence was a big deal.

And not that Illya had ever gotten around to taking the antidepressants or anti-anxiety medication, of course, but Napoleon had no need to know that, either… unless a rogue cop decided to raid Kuryakin's room one day and found the dozen or so unopened bottles and suspected the Russian of peddling prescription drugs. Then maybe he'd let Solo in on it when he came to bail his blond troublemaker of a boyfriend out of jail.

In any case, regardless of the limits to his disclosure, Solo had unquestioningly acquiesced to the pit-stop in the pharmacy and didn't seem to regard Kuryakin any differently afterward.

Another incident had occurred a week or two after that: he and Napoleon were driving to Connecticut with Mark and April, as April's family had generously invited the lot of them to share Thanksgiving. Illya wasn't overly familiar with the holiday, but he knew that it was enough of a family-focused affair that the Dancers' invitation to April's friends was not nothing.

Seeing as it was her car, April had served as chauffeur, with Mark in the passenger seat; Illya had the seat behind her and Napoleon had taken the awkward middle seat instead of the more comfortable full seat behind the Brit.

 _About halfway to their destination, April commented that the boys better start thinking of what to get her for Christmas. Mark muttered something teasing about how lovely it was that she appreciated the true spirit of that holiday, and Napoleon declared that Dancer was so hard to shop for that he was perpetually on the lookout for gift ideas, whether it be for Christmas or her birthday._

" _And speaking of birthdays," Solo went on, turning with a twinkle in his eye to his backseat buddy, "when's yours, for future reference?"_

 _Kuryakin hesitated briefly before admitting, "It was the ninth."_

 _Solo's brows went up. "This past 'the ninth'?"_

 _When Illya nodded, Mark laughed, "You little shit, why'd you not tell us?"_

" _Yes," Napoleon added with a grin, "now you have to give us the scoop on what it's like to be an old man of nineteen."_

 _Kuryakin cringed on the inside but promptly corrected, "Eighteen."_

" _Hm?"_

" _I rounded up when I disclosed my age. I just turned eighteen." Lifting his chin with some dignity to counteract the uncertainty that only he could hear in his next statement, he said, "You forgive my deception, yes?"_

 _Napoleon leaned in with a throaty chuckle. Apparently buying the front of false confidence, he murmured, "You already know I do," before joining their lips gently._

 _As they exchanged a series of light kisses, Illya noted with some gratitude that April and Mark had started their own conversation and one of the pair in the front of the car had turned up the music on the radio a bit._

 _Regardless of whether or not they offered those token bits of privacy, Dancer and Slate were without question the only ones Kuryakin didn't mind having around when he and Solo were demonstrating any sort of affection. Having known from the start that April and Mark happily endorsed their relationship was comforting enough that he was able to relax into Napoleon's ministrations and almost forget that he and his boyfriend were not alone._

 _Almost, that is, until Solo's tongue prodded tenderly at his lips (now there was a novel sensation) and April's voice called, "Whoa, boys!"_

 _The backseaters pulled apart, the blond more quickly than the brunet._

" _I know the back seat is made for smooching, but let's not steam up the windows, shall we? I still need to see out of them to drive."_

 _As it turned out, rather than traveling directly to her parents' house, Dancer took them to a shopping mall. She explained the change in destination with, "Some of us have to get rolling on belated b'day gifts for certain others of us. Right, blondie?"_

 _And despite Illya's protests that this was completely unnecessary, the others proceeded to take turns hanging out with Kuryakun while each of them set out to find a present. Dancer took a little longer than the others, as her expedition included swinging by a bake shop to pick up celebratory cupcakes._

Naturally, since she was unaware of his health situation, they had not been gluten-free cupcakes, but Illya had happily eaten one anyway and was grateful that he was no longer prone to bouts of vomiting and diarrhea as he had been as a child. Accepting the icing-covered offering of friendship seemed worth starting over (yet again) on his efforts to eat properly.

And that confused him.

He who had previously counted his parents and professors as his closest companions.

He who had all the social graces of a blobfish.

He who had rarely considered the possibility of having friends from his own generation, and he who had never thought of himself as having any romantic impulses.

All that was out the window, as he found himself looking forward to meetings with his three fellow dorm-dwellers, who seemed to find his clumsy efforts at social interaction nothing if not endearing. They were, naturally, oddballs in their own right, which was really a precondition of their ever having had a chance at connecting on any level with Kuryakin.

Dancer always wrote with her left hand in an effort to force herself into ambidexterity and enjoyed discussing the latest academic publications focused on chemistry. So devoted was she that she had physical, paper copies of the journals delivered to her—courtesy of a generous uncle, she said—rather than settling for digital versions, and she was nice enough to loan Illya any issue she wasn't currently perusing.

Slate was learning to ride a unicycle and was running an ongoing thought experiment with Illya in which they attempted to construct the perfect socialist society. In one particularly lengthy planning session, Mark had readjusted his position on the floor and accidentally hitched up his trouser leg a bit, unknowingly granting the Russian a glimpse of a small gun holstered at his ankle—just the briefest sliver of a glimpse that a person less observant than Illya would likely have missed.

Solo, too, seemed to carry about a weapon in a similar manner, but he never confronted either man about it since neither seemed prone to violence and it wasn't as if Kuryakin (with his habit of generating explosions on his desk) had much moral ground to stand on when it came to things that went bang.

Regardless of the firearm situation, Napoleon had certainly shot to pieces Illya's assumption that he had no desire or capacity to be emotionally or physically drawn to a fellow human, and that particularly frightened him. While he could generally control his display of emotions, he'd had no previous need to restrain physical urges. Thinking back, Illya could scarcely recall ever having contemplating sex before about a month ago, and he was fairly certain he'd never uttered that little "S" word in any language in his entire life.

Well, the latter was a situation he could remedy easily enough. And the least he could do was say the word, if he was to have any hope of not blushing the color of a tomato whenever Napoleon pet at his hair and said he loved him and kissed him and—if things progressed, as they seemed to be doing—asked for more.

Glancing around, Illya got up from his desk chair and double-checked that his door was locked. Then he wondered what the hell he'd been trying to accomplish by securing his room and sat back down, drumming the fingers of both hands restlessly on the desk surface.

It was just a word.

Not even a remotely difficult English word by any stretch of the imagination.

He closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists…

" _Sex_."

…and threw his head back with a groan as he felt the flush burning across his face.

Determining that any further efforts in this vein would likely be unproductive at the moment, he checked the time and found that it was early enough to make an attempt at meditation before bed. It was always a bit risky, this meditation business: the process sometimes resulted in him fixating on a worry rather than expelling it from his mind, but he kept up the practice since it did occasionally succeed in relaxing him.

Unmake the bed. Cross-legged on the mattress. Wrap himself in the blanket. Choose a spot on the wall to focus on. Think soothing thoughts. Breathe.

In, out. Easy.

In, out. Calm.

In, out. Peace.

In, out. Joy.

In, out. Love.

In, out. Napoleon.

In, out. Butterflies.

In—over his head.

Out—of his mind.

Dammit, what had he gotten himself into?

* * *

A/N: If you managed to slog through that, stayed tuned for the next installment so you can see my trainwreck of an attempt at an action sequence!

The song excerpt used as Illya's ringtone is from "Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)" by My Chemical Romance. I dunno, I just saw Modern AU Teenage/Young Adult Illya heading down the FOB/MCR/P!ATD/TOP/etc. musical pathway at least for a little bit. (Anyway, if you're inclined to YouTube the song, maybe go for the official lyric video as opposed to the music video, so's to avoid some overzealous censorship.)

Thanks so much for reading! :)


	4. Act IV: Lewis Carroll

A/N: Almost at the end. (virtual hug) Thanks for sticking it out, kind reader, :)

I was a bit overambitious about using computer terms here… I'm not a complete tech noob (wait, do people say "noob" anymore?), but if my 2.5 seconds of research are offensively inadequate, let me know and I'll try to fix it.

And that reminds me, while I'm feeling apologetic (80% of the time): if anything else throughout the previous chapters struck you as offensive, feel free to leave a (kindly-worded?) review or PM me and I'll address it ASAP. Might not change it if I disagree, but I'll certainly try to address any concerns, :)

On to the stirring(?) conclusion! Another mention of a panic attack here, but not as descriptive as in Chapter 2.

* * *

Act IV

"Go on till you come to the end: then stop."

Lewis Carroll

 _December 1st_

They said it would be his downfall.

Life as an agent was nasty, brutish, and short.

He would have to be crazy to even consider it.

And that was from combat veterans of the U.S. Army, warning him against the U.N.C.L.E. recruiters who inevitably popped in to make the acquaintance of folks recently discharged from the Services.

They said he should get that college education he'd talked about.

Make a few friends and set aside plenty of time for family.

He should busy himself with volunteer work.

And that was what he told the U.N.C.L.E. men who approached him. One of the gray-suited gents had laughed himself into a coughing fit at the prospect of Napoleon Solo filling his hours at a soup kitchen or an animal shelter. _Look here, kid, that's not how you're wired. You're no more suited to soup-ladling and poop-scooping than I am to heavyweight boxing and reaching the top shelf at the supermarket_. The guy appeared all of five feet tall and a hundred pounds in steel-toed boots and, much to Solo's irritation, the pipsqueak had a point.

Not that he admitted it right away.

And not that he wasn't a bit disturbed at the pipsqueak being familiar enough with his personality to make that point.

But he did accept the business card he was given and—once he'd spent enough time kicking around his parents' house and preparing to become a college man—he did eventually realize that being a student was unlikely to be exciting enough to keep him satisfied.

Down the rabbit hole it was.

He was told that it was up to him whether he disclosed the matter to his immediate family, and Solo opted against sharing the thing with his parents for the time being: the poor folks were so relieved that their son was no longer in mortal danger on a regular basis that he didn't have the heart to shoot down that illusion.

Not that he would frequently be in mortal danger as a lowly rookie agent, but he had been told in no uncertain terms that life-threatening affairs would be par for the course once he completed the training period and became a full-fledged enforcement agent. That probably should not have been an appealing feature of the job, but it certainly managed to hold Napoleon's interest.

His first two years of college were spent in California and, as promised, he was largely left alone by U.N.C.L.E. so he could focus on his studies. The exceptions to the rule were the occasional reading assignments he was given and the summer survival courses he was required to attend.

Once he transferred to a university in New York for his junior year, he signed on to the newly-minted trainee program at the NYC U.N.C.L.E. office and started participating in low-risk missions, shadowing seasoned agents as they conducted surveillance and delivered documents and other rather dull things.

The boredom was eased somewhat by his having been introduced to his fellow recruits, and it certainly helped that he clicked more easily with these folks than he had with those at the Los Angeles office: the camaraderie with Mark Slate and April Dancer was reminiscent of the bond he felt with his pals in the army, and that alone was enough to convince him that he'd chosen the right rabbit hole to hop into.

And then came Illya.

At first, his nearly instantaneous attraction to the guy was so alarming that he thought it had to be a honey trap, then he came to his senses and realized it would be a stupid idea for someone to send a dude out to seduce a hitherto heterosexual male. (Even though it apparently would have worked.)

At second, he surprised himself with how easily his libido was able to take a backseat to his interest in talking to and just generally being around the Russian, and he was further surprised that a simple kiss could send a jolt of electricity straight through to his toes.

At third, he wondered if he could handle it. Would T.H.R.U.S.H. always be looming nearby, looking for any opportunity to sweep Illya into their camp? Would Napoleon always have to go on high alert whenever "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" started playing, bracing himself for his boyfriend to suffer a panic attack?

That last point was edging ever further into the ridiculous, actually. His paranoia over that particular song had, of its own accord, branched out to encompass all holiday songs, which really got to be a pain as more and more places started blaring Christmas music. It had fortunately proven an unnecessary concern thus far, as the only startling music-related incidents had been entirely harmless.

First, the four of them—Solo, Kuryakin, Dancer, Slate—had stopped into a shopping center the day before Thanksgiving, resulting in the guys' jumping as Dancer suddenly yelled, _"You couldn't wait two freaking days?!"_

Second, the two of them—Solo and Kuryakin—had popped into a pharmacy to pick up some unidentified prescriptions for Illya, and Napoleon had been surprised when the blond started mumbling along as "I Have a Little Dreidel" came over the speakers.

"How did you come to know a Hanukkah song?" Napoleon wondered, as memorizing lyrics to a song he presumably had no need to know seemed the kind of task that Illya just might consider frivolous.

"In England, my classmates once attempted to teach me the English words to Christmas songs. I was feeling rather rebellious and somewhat offended by their presumption that I wanted to know the words, so I learned Hanukkah songs in Yiddish and Hebrew instead." He resumed his interrupted mumble-singing. "To lomir ale shpiln, in dreydl eyns un tsvey…"

And that was how Napoleon tried to soothe himself.

Not with Hanukkah songs.

With the fact that Illya was a rebel. He might be the proverbial Innocent in that he had no clue he was in T.H.R.U.S.H.'s crosshairs, but he was not helpless: this was a guy who was proficient in martial arts, had no qualms about hacking into corporate documents, and set off explosions in his dorm room for fun.

"Are you ready?"

Solo jolted out of his unnecessarily long jaunt down memory lane at the sound of the voice near him at the entrance to the library. "Always ready, Miss Dancer. He went in about an hour ago and hasn't come out since."

"Alright then. Back to the dorms to play watchdog some more."

"Roger that."

* * *

"Found you."

Illya looked up from his small desk amongst the bookcases of Stack 3 in the university's main library. He gathered up his things, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stood up.

"Aw, poor thing, do I scare you?" Angelique put one hand on the desk and another on the wall, effectively blocking Illya into his little corner. "I know I didn't make the best impression the first time, but I did try to wash off my eau d'infamie."

Illya vaulted over the desk. "And yet the stench lingers." He walked quickly, annoyed but not surprised by the click-clack of her heels not far behind.

"Do forgive me, darling, but I needed to know if you had thought it over. I gave you rather more than enough time to ponder, I thought."

"You speak too loud in the library." Illya clamped his mouth shut after that. He had promised Napoleon that he would stay away from her, so it would probably be best if he terminate the conversation rather than engaging, even if he was trying to get away from her in the process.

"Sorry, Illyusha," she whispered. "Napoleon told you not to talk to me, didn't he?"

No response as Illya headed into the stairwell.

"And he didn't tell you why, no doubt. Why do you trust him, Illyusha? Because he just happened to meet you before I did? Because you just happen to find his personality less repulsive than mine? Because he's quite nice in bed? Things aren't always what they seem, Illyusha. Why do you assume I'm the villain and he's the good guy? A gut feeling? I'd have thought you'd know better than to base your decisions on something as flimsy as emotions."

Illya slowed down a bit but continued descending the stairs.

"I know I can be a tad abrasive from time to time, but I didn't mean to knock your being a student. It's only that I know what else you could be doing. How you could make a mark on this terrible world in a big way. Can you stop for a minute?"

Illya stopped at the landing of the second floor and she joined him, pulled something small from her back pocket, and held it out, saying, "A peace offering. I have friends who could really use and appreciate your help. They wanted to give you a little present."

He took the object with two fingers. It was a key with a note tied to the end, specifying the post office branch and post office box it belonged to.

"It won't bite, darling. It's just a little token of our esteem." Angelique closed his fingers around the key as if to confirm his acceptance of the offering. "We'll be in touch… Mr. Kuryakin." She smiled warmly and trotted off down the stairs, leaving Illya to open his hand and contemplate its contents.

Illya slipped the key into his jacket pocket as he slipped his cellphone out and surveyed his Contacts list. If he was going to open the P.O. Box, he wasn't doing it alone. Despite Angelique's assertion about gut feelings not being reliable, he still instinctively distrusted her and wanted someone trustworthy around in the event that the box contained laundered money and he was being set up for a frame-up.

He tapped open his last text string with April, typed out " _Do you know Angelique?_ ", and almost had the phone back in his pocket when it buzzed.

 _April: Not personally but Napoleon told me about her_

 _Illya: He refused to tell me why I should avoid her._

 _April: She's not a good person_

 _Illya: I gathered that much. Can you be more specific? I believe it is relevant to me and it might be helpful to know._

 _April: Has she been bothering you?_

 _Illya: Yes._

 _April: Details…?_

 _Illya: She accosted me in the library and gave me a key to a P.O. Box containing a gift of some kind. Can you explain why she is not a good person now?_

 _April: She is involved in illegal things and I can't tell you more than that bc if you know more than she wants you to it could be dangerous_

 _Illya: At the risk of sounding like I watch too much TV, the withholding of information to "protect someone" sometimes puts Someone in more danger._

 _Illya: Someone = me, to be perfectly clear._

 _April: Give me a few minutes while I get permission to explain more… please wait at library?_

 _Illya: Very well. Thank you._

Illya pocketed the phone and headed down to the ground floor, which was populated with the checkout desk, sofas, televisions on low volume, a small café area, and (most importantly) enough people to hopefully deter Angelique from popping in and harassing him again. He settled into an unoccupied collection of armchairs and couches surrounding a coffee table and returned to the book he had been reading before he'd been so rudely interrupted.

Half an hour later, his pocket buzzed.

 _April: I got permission for part of it… still at library?_

 _Illya: Yes, in the lobby area._

 _April: Better to talk in person… Napoleon, Mark and I will be there soon ok?_

 _Illya: I will wait._

Back to the book until, fifteen minutes later, April and Napoleon appeared, sitting down in the area Illya had staked out. Napoleon took the seat on his left and April the seat on his right. As Solo bent down to tie his shoe (and, incidentally, stick a tracker or two into the sneakers Kuryakin was wearing), April waved at Illya to carry on reading until Mark got there, which he did ten minutes later.

"Sorry I was late. When I get to chatting with my uncle, sometimes he just won't shut up."

"Hm."

Napoleon peered over to see that Illya had donned his thinking face, and Mark asked, "What?"

"Oh, nothing." It was, however, apparently not nothing since Illya felt the need to continue speaking. "I just thought it was interesting that you all seem to have generous uncles with whom you are quite close." He cast a quick glance in Napoleon's direction. "It is also interesting that you have a gun. Perhaps uncles and concealed weapons are things I shall pick up on if I spend as much time in America as you three have."

Mark followed Illya's glance and chided, "Napoleon, you know you aren't supposed to carry on campus!"

Illya's casual expression turned annoyed. "It is somewhat in poor taste that you would throw him under the bus for something you are guilty of as well, Mark." His eyes flitted over the trio. "I don't suppose this has to do with what you had to get permission to tell me."

Napoleon tapped his fingers on his knee a few times. "So… you two mentioned your uncles?"

April nodded. "I didn't realize you had mentioned your uncle. I guess we shouldn't use the same, uh, turn of phrase when we all hang out with the same people."

Mark made a sound of protest. "Don't drag my arse into this! I, for one, have an actual uncle with whom I was chatting." Really, he'd just finished putting the trackers in Kuryakin's shoes, and then his uncle just _had_ to call while he was still in the subject's dorm room. Rude.

"Not to interrupt," Illya interrupted the others' internal conversation, "but I am still here, with my patience incrementally declining with each tick of the clock."

Napoleon promptly produced his cell phone, slipped open a panel in the back of the case, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Illya.

"'Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E., Trainee'," Illya read out. He looked up again. "So 'uncle' is your… company name?"

"U.N.C.L.E.," began Napoleon, "the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

Illya's eyes widened. "I am in trouble with law enforcement?"

"No-no-no," Napoleon rushed as April and Mark offered similar denials, "you haven't done anything wrong. Our spending time with you has nothing to do with our, uh… _company_."

"Not at first it didn't," April corrected.

Illya flipped the card through the fingers in one hand a few times. "So I was not in trouble at first but over time it has become the case that I am in trouble?"

Mark shook his head. "No, you're still not in trouble. Well—"

Napoleon and April shushed and gave him a smack in the arm, respectively.

Mark silently berated himself for going beyond what Crane had authorized them to tell, then proceeded with, "What April means is that we started off wanting to be friends for the sake of being friends but… you're a bright guy. Napoleon mentioned you to our superiors and they believe you might be agent material."

Illya's anxious eyes hardened. "You are mocking me. You expect me to believe you are spies of some kind?"

Napoleon held up a finger. "Trainees. If we were full-fledged spies, we'd hopefully be better at concealing weapons and not using the same 'uncle' euphemism on the same person."

"Gross incompetence aside—"

Mark harrumphed indignantly.

"—I still have a hard time believing you are spies, trainee or not. First, why are we talking openly about this in a library? Second, why do you have a business card saying you are a spy? Third, in the unlikely case that you are spies, how am I to know whether you are 'the good guys'?"

Napoleon volunteered to take on the exposition. "First, sometimes doing things casually out in the open is actually more effective than explicitly attempting to be covert, as long as we're speaking quietly, which we are. Second, while we don't go around shouting 'I'm a spy' from the rooftops, we are an organization whose existence is publicly known, so a little ID can come in handy. Third, U.N.C.L.E. is a peace-building, peacekeeping, peace-restoring organization and it is under those auspices that we operate. Angelique works for our counterparts."

Illya smirked. "Allow me to hazard a guess. A.U.N.T."

April verbally stepped in. "As hilarious as that would be, no. Unfortunately, we aren't authorized to tell you about them, aside from the part about their being all evil and stuff. All you need to know right now is to stay the H-E-double-hockey-sticks away from Angelique, and contact us right away if you see her again."

"Very well." Illya stood up and handed the business card back to Napoleon. "If your organization is publicly known, you will not object to my conducting a bit of research into what is publicly available. I do want to trust you, as I consider you friends, but perhaps you might be able to understand that this espionage proposition is somewhat unnerving for a plebian such as myself."

"Have at," Mark welcomed, "but many of our operations are covert, so you may not find all that much."

 _Challenge accepted_. "I shall satisfy myself with what I can find. I will see you tomorrow."

"Whoa, there." Solo reached up a hand, moving it close to Kuryakin's elbow as the blond rose from his seat but not quite touching him. "April mentioned you were given a P.O. Box key. I don't suppose you'd care to let us hold onto that for you."

"We can discuss it tomorrow. In the meantime, you can rest assured that I am not stupid enough to go about flippantly opening containers whose contents might potentially have originated from an evil organization."

Napoleon frowned a bit but didn't otherwise protest.

Illya glanced around at the trio and, when nobody seemed inclined to start speaking again, he said, "I shall retire to my room for the rest of the day. If there is anything else you see fit to tell me, I will be there."

* * *

Back in his room, Illya opened his laptop and started off with a basic search for U.N.C.L.E. He viewed several countries' government websites with their single pages on the subject:

 _"The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement is a peace-building, peacekeeping, peace-restoring agency with which we are proud to be associated. Follow the link below for the official U.N.C.L.E. website."_

Every time he followed the link, it was to a Spartan display that reiterated the agency's mission, mentioned that they had offices at the United Nations buildings in New York, Geneva, Nairobi, and Vienna, and directed that any enquiries be sent via certified mail delivery to one of those addresses. The rest of the page provided a list of affiliated countries with links back to their determinedly undetailed declarations of association with U.N.C.L.E.

Thoroughly dissatisfied, Illya then tried a search for "U.N.C.L.E. counterpart", which resulted in a number of websites helpfully defining the word 'aunt' before a single newspaper's archive mentioned some rather unflattering things about an organization called T.H.R.U.S.H. Several more minutes of searching (now using 'thrush' as a keyword) turned up nothing but ornithological resources.

Illya stood up, stretched, grabbed a can of carbonated fruit juice from his mini fridge for a quick sugar infusion, and donned the glasses he wore when he expected to do a lot of staring at screens and words. This was going to be a very long night.

* * *

Napoleon let out a breath and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. "Man, what a trip." Once his friends had made sounds of agreement, he continued, "My first boyfriend, and he turned out to be a genius, practically underage, and under pursuit by T.H.R.U.S.H."

"You're making some statements that sound rather past-tense," Mark commented.

April nodded and put in, "Are you going to break up with him?"

Napoleon leaned forward again. "What, me? No. I wouldn't be surprised if _he_ broke up with _me_ , though. All these secrets don't make for a strong basis upon which to build a relationship."

"That's not your fault, and it isn't as if he hasn't been keeping secrets of his own," argued April.

Mark backed her up, adding, "And Illya's smart enough to understand that you have to comply with the orders you're given, I should think. If you're so worried about this, go talk to him and make it clear that you would tell him everything if it were up to you, but it's not."

And so Napoleon followed this suggestion, arriving at the dorm room door minutes later and knocking a few times before calling quietly, "Illya, it's me."

The door opened just a crack. Blue eyes blinked at him from behind comically large, heavily-rimmed glasses.

"I wanted to apologize for not being completely forthright with you from the beginning. Unfortunately, I'm pretty low in the pecking order, so I don't get to decide what you are and are not allowed to know. If it were up to me, I'd tell you everything, but I can't."

"I understand, Napoleon. Is that all? I have work to do."

Napoleon smiled. "Of course. School stuff?" he asked conversationally.

"It is related to my field of study, yes."

"Ah." Napoleon frowned at the noncommittal response but opted not to press the Russian on this point. If Kuryakin could find at least part of what he needed to know without Solo having to break rank and tell him outright, that worked for him. "I'll leave you to it then. We're, uh, still together, right?"

"Seeing as you have not yet departed, the answer seems obvious."

"I meant, as a couple."

"Yes, that too."

Napoleon released the breath he hadn't intended to hold. "Good. See you later. Can I, uh…?" He leaned in a bit, and Illya stuck his head out enough to meet his lips halfway for a brief meeting. "Thanks. I know this might be pushing it since you're probably still a little ticked, but you look cute with glasses on."

Illya shut the door and promptly resumed his efforts to hack through the security systems of the U.N.C.L.E. virtual private network, which (appropriately enough) he'd found through the website for Del Floria's tailor shop. Napoleon hoped Illya knew what the hell he was doing.

* * *

By one in the morning, Kuryakin felt he had gleaned about all he could by accessing the agency's files.

Recruitment practices. (Former military personnel, intelligence operatives, and government scientists were preferred.)

Insurance information. (Health and life insurance were automatically provided to all employees at no cost, under the condition that those employees waived the right to sue for wrongful death or injury.)

Retirement policies. (Field agents were forced to retire as soon as an agency doctor said the word, and pensions were generous.)

Cities hosting the multiple headquarters of the organization. (It wasn't a surprise that there was one somewhere in New York City.)

Details on the recently-instigated trainee program. (Apparently, it had been instigated after one agent was maimed and two others killed on a mission that could have been successful if everyone had had a certain level of training under their belts.)

Research proposals for new gadgets and chemical concoctions. (His personal favorite was the suggestion of a miniaturized laser mounted in a contact lens. Its only shortcoming was the more-than-passing chance of its permanently blinding the user.)

Now he was increasingly running into pages suggesting he see So-and-so from the Such-and-such Department to find hard copies of things, rather than being able to obtain information remotely.

Furthermore, his eyes were starting to water a bit from a solid seven or eight hours of screen-staring, and he wouldn't be surprised if he experienced sudden-onset carpal tunnel syndrome any minute now. Not that sudden-onset carpal tunnel was a thing as far as he knew but, considering his luck when it came to health issues, he wouldn't put it past himself to be the first documented case. Or undocumented case, seeing as he preferred not to bother medical professionals with such trifles.

Satisfied that he wouldn't be finding anything else new, he went back to the Research Proposal section, added a polite suggestion that they consider a twenty-first century standard when it came to information security, and beat a retreat from the U.N.C.L.E. VPN.

Illya took off his glasses and let them clatter to his desk as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then wiped off his tear-moistened hands on his trouser-clad thighs. He noted with annoyance that his shirt was also feeling damp and grumbled about the dorm's hyperactive heating system.

Upon standing, he groaned at the cricks running all along his back and stretched gingerly, extending his arms, spreading his legs, and bending forward and back and side to side until he felt less like he was in imminent danger of some tightly-wound muscle snapping in two.

Between the over-warm room and the lingering pains from his over-long sitting session, 1:10 a.m. seemed like the perfect time for a walk. He checked the weather app on his phone, decided that thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit merited a light jacket, and snagged the black denim one that Napoleon had given him. His fingers had suffered enough damage for the night, so he also donned a pair of gloves to protect them from the outdoor conditions.

Once his minimally-populated keychain with its handy little flashlight was safely in hand, and his phone safely in pocket, he vacated his room. On the way downstairs (always down the stairs: elevators gave him the creeps), he considered texting his U.N.C.L.E. trainee friends to inform them that his plans to spend all night in his room had changed. Deciding that they were probably asleep and he was really under no obligation to keep them apprised of his every move, his phone remained undisturbed in its pouch as he exited the building.

He had scarcely made it a hundred feet from the dorms when he discovered he was not alone on his little jaunt.

"Hi there."

Illya didn't have to turn his head to know who had greeted him. He took his hands out of his pockets in the event he had to use them, then resumed his walking.

"It's rude to ignore people, Mr. Kuryakin," Angelique tutted.

Illya had no issue with maintaining his rudeness.

"You might want to show me those baby blues, darling."

A click, and Illya froze. He'd never heard the sound in person before but, based on television and movie audio effects, he had the dreadful feeling that the quiet noise had come from a gun.

"And smile when you do it. You should be happy for this moment. This moment is your life."

"We are doing Omar Khayyam? 'Oh, threats of Hell'…" Illya very slowly turned around. "…'this life flies.'" Just before he was completely facing Angelique, he snapped out a kick, knocking the weapon from her hand, and took off.

"That's no way to treat a lady, Illyusha!"

Illya would have quipped back something about there being a substantial difference between ladies and 'maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crews', but was rather preoccupied with not-so-subtly fleeing.

"Rick, Steve! Get him back—intact, if you please!"

He didn't spare a backward glance to make the visual acquaintance of Rick and Steve, trusting from the pounding of footsteps behind him that the pair of presumably unpleasant fellows did indeed exist. Going back to the dorm seemed more likely to endanger a bunch of innocent students than preserve his own wellbeing, so Illya proceeded farther afield, exiting campus property in short order and sprinting at random down different streets as the sounds of his pursuers fell further and further behind.

Not entirely sure where he was going—other than, of course, in the opposite direction to wherever Angelique and her goons happened to be—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and kept running, figuring that he'd continue on until he was fairly confident the bad guys had given up, or until his legs gave out, or until he found a safe place to hide. In the meantime, maybe he could get a little backup of some kind.

He contemplated calling 9-1-1, but recalled how hard it had been for him to find out anything about T.H.R.U.S.H. on his own. How would it look if he called the police and claimed to be desperately in need of rescuing from a set of evil-doers? At best, they'd try to send someone out to do a mental health check. At worst, they'd chalk it up as a prank call and unceremoniously hang up on him.

While he didn't know if his U.N.C.L.E. friends would be able to do anything, they seemed his best option for assistance, so he tapped to Napoleon's number on his phone, jay-ran across a street, wondered if he'd dislocated his knee as he caught a foot against the curb and felt a snap, and hoped that he would get an answer sooner rather than later.

 _"Illya?"_ Napoleon's voice came through on the second ring. He sounded a bit surprised, which in itself was not surprising given that Illya had never called him before, preferring the efficiency of a pithily-worded text over the prolonged conversations that Solo tended to make out of everything.

The Russian took a breath and replied in the closest thing to a normal voice that he could manage while darting along the sidewalks and roadways of New York. He could only presume his knee had not been dislocated, as it seemed to be holding up for the time being. "I believe you're a spy and the good guys and I deeply regret ever having doubted you, my friend."

 _"Where are you?"_

Grateful that Napoleon had skipped straight to the _how can I help_ part rather than inquiring as to what was the matter, Illya glanced around and found no villains in sight. He took the moment to duck into the concave entryway of a building that was closed for the night and catch his breath.

 _"Illya?"_

"On the run," he finally explained. "Doorway of Blue Skies Pharmacy."

A few shouts floated over on the crisp December-night breeze. Illya wasn't sure if it was Steve or Rick or a tourist who'd had a bit much to drink, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Nix the pharmacy, I'm running again."

Napoleon's voice got a bit quieter, as if he'd drawn the phone away from his face. _"April, they're after him. Tell HQ to activate the trackers."_ The voice became louder again. _"Think you can find someplace safe and stay there?"_

"I don't—" He cut himself off abruptly as he almost ran straight past the restaurant where he and Napoleon had had their first date. "I'm at—"

This time Solo cut him off, sounding a bit out of breath himself. _"Don't say where. Not a secure line."_

"Oh—then—Omar Khayyam?"

 _"Wha—oh!"_

"Make the most of what we…"

 _"…yet may spend—yes, yes, I remember! I'm coming right now. If you can stay there when you get there, stay. Do not leave with anyone until you see April, Mark, or me, okay?"_

"Yes." Illya ran around through an alley at the side of the restaurant, coming to a backdoor in the rear of the building.

 _"When you see us, we'll tell you it's okay if it is okay."_ Napoleon puffed a couple of times, and a few pounding and slamming sounds provided some backdrop to his voice. _"Listen and be precise, understand?"_

Illya wriggled his fingers in his right-hand glove for a second, then punched through the glass in the door, uncertain of whether to be pleased or disappointed that an alarm didn't start blaring. Maybe it was a silent alarm and the cops would swarm the place and he'd find himself safely in a holding cell.

He responded absently, "Yes, if it's okay," as he shook off the shock to his knuckles, pried off a few remaining shards of glass, and reached in to unbolt and open the door.

 _"Only come with us if it's okay—only_ _ **okay**_ _, do you understand?"_

"Yes, yes," Illya mumbled, letting himself in and shutting the door behind. He turned around—

—and went cross-eyed at the handgun pointed at his nose.

 _"Only_ _ **okay**_ _,"_ Napoleon repeated. _"And you…"_

Blue eyes slowly rose from the barrel of the gun to the possessor, a tall bald man who mouthed _"hang up now"_. Illya very deliberately raised his free hand and pressed the button to end the call, cutting off Solo's ongoing speech.

The man grabbed the phone, dropped it, and stomped a heel into the device. Illya mourned the loss of a second phone. At least the previous one had had the wherewithal to perish in an implosion rather than be done in by some jerk's footgear.

"Alright, small fry," the man smirked, and Illya marveled at his originality. "Turn on the light. It's the switch by the door. No funny business."

"I hear I'm supposed to be recovered intact," the blond commented as he carefully reached back and hit the switch, flooding the restaurant kitchen with light. "You will not shoot me."

"Not to kill, no, but a busted kneecap won't hurt your brains." He nodded his head at a small table in a corner. "Put your hands on your head and sit on that."

Illya weaved his fingers together and raised his arms, resting his hands where he'd been ordered to as he slowly made his way to the corner. Once there, he feigned having trouble getting onto the tabletop. "May I use my hands to mount?"

The man came over to keep the gun closer to its target as he smirked and nodded. His amusement at the small fry's plight ended when Kuryakin lowered his arms, then suddenly dropped his body to the floor as he pushed his hands up, catching the gun and sending its aim upward.

One bullet was fired, then Illya fell the rest of the way to the ground pulling the man's gun arm down as he lifted both legs to press his feet into the falling man's stomach, propelling him over the blond head. The man lost his grip on the gun as he tumbled over Illya, who switched his grasp from the arm to the gun and rolled himself a short distance away, whacking his side into a butcher block in the process.

"Put your hands on your head," Kuryakin snapped, turning the weapon on its owner as he got to his knees, steadied himself by leaning against the butcher block, and got to his feet without shifting his aim. " _Now_. I assure you I cannot miss from this range, and I am under no orders to preserve your brains."

The bald man complied, sputtering a bit from having had the wind knocked out of him.

"Stand up."

He stood.

"Turn around."

He turned, and so he didn't see as Illya took a couple of quick steps forward, shifted his hands on the firearm, and used the butt of the gun to clock the man in the back of the head.

As the would-be kidnapper crumpled to the kitchen floor, Illya glanced about the room for anything vaguely reminiscent of a rope. Thinking back to September, he remembered the curtains in the reception area had been tied back with something—hopefully something that might fit the bill.

"You move and this time I will shoot," he promised the heap on the floor, just in case it was still at all alert.

In short order, he'd removed the fancy tassel-ended ropes from the curtains at the front window and returned to find the bald man comfortingly motionless. After a wary kick to the man's elbow, he was convinced of the lack of consciousness and set to hogtying his former aggressor.

Giving a final tug to the restraints, he stood again, muttering, "Boy Scouts can hold my beer." And they could dispose of it for him as well. Beer wasn't gluten-free.

Before he could fully relish the adrenaline that made his satisfied grin lurch somewhere north of wild, the sounds of rustling and footsteps drifted in through the broken window. Illya glanced between the exterior door and the gun a couple of times, coming quickly to the conclusion that caution was the better part of valor. As it was, he'd already been tempting fate in his efforts to disarm and incapacitate his captor, as well as having managed to knock a similar weapon from Angelique's hands earlier, so there seemed little sense in testing his limits.

He drew the keychain with its flashlight from his jacket pocket and slipped back into the reception area, disappearing from the view of anyone who might be in the kitchen as he turned to the staircase leading to the second-floor dining room.

Now, as he clicked on his small light and ascended the carpeted stairs, he was moving into familiar territory: the room where, only a few months ago, he had initially bonded with Napoleon over Shakespeare and holiday specials. He could hear the back door opening, followed by Angelique moaning melodramatically over the idiot who'd gotten himself knocked out on the kitchen floor.

Up in the dining room, her words became indistinguishable with the increasing distance, and he started casting about for a place to hole up until someone less threatening came looking for him. Beyond an open archway, there was another staircase leading up, but he didn't know what might be on the third floor and preferred not to go much higher, lest he have the need to make a desperate leap out a window.

He sidled around the bookcases interspersed amongst cloth-covered tables with chairs set upside-down upon the dining surfaces, keeping the gun directed away from himself and perpendicular to his chest. An Exit sign drew his attention to a door presumably leading out to a fire escape at the back of the building, and he moved in that direction.

Kuryakin settled on the table nearest the exit as his best option, seeing as it was half-hidden behind bookshelves and hopefully close enough to the fire escape that he could sneak out of the building should Solo and his U.N.C.L.E. friends take too long to arrive. He ducked under the table, glad that the tablecloth was long as it was, and turned the flashlight on his newfound gun.

It was shiny.

Not too heavy.

Rather aesthetically displeasing.

Shaking in his hand.

He couldn't tell if his quaking was from adrenaline, nerves, or the emerging pain that probably had something to do with the red patches slowly seeping through the fabric of his glove, which had apparently not been as effective as he'd hoped in protecting him while punching out the glass in the back door window.

Whatever the cause, he was pretty sure his best options were to wait for help or run out the fire escape, and he preferred not to accidentally shoot himself or his friends in pursuing either of those possibilities. Throwing out the thing, however, would be a stupid idea, as was the idea of continuing to handle a weapon he'd never used with a wounded hand.

After a moment of indecision, he concluded that he'd rather have both hands free for whatever was about to happen, seeing as he might find them helpful should his left knee find even limping too difficult and require him to crawl or hang onto things to move himself along. Reaching around, he carefully tucked the weapon into the back of his pants—letting the handle and trigger stay above the waistband and pressed against his shirt—then he pulled his jacket protectively over the whole thing. This way, the weapon was still with him if he needed it and the worst-case scenario for this positioning was (he hoped) shooting the heel of his shoe.

Turning off the flashlight, Illya devoted his attention to listening. Angelique's voice was growing louder, and the change in volume seemed to be due to increasing proximity rather than her raising her voice. He scooted backward, just a bit closer to the emergency exit but still under the table.

Just as he was pretty sure he heard someone on the stairs, there was a shout from the first floor—

—sounds of a scuffle—

—Angelique exclaimed, "Napoleon, darling!"—

—a gunshot—

—a woman's scream—

—crash—

—whack—

—shatter—

—crack—

— _BANG BANG BANG!_

Illya instinctively moved forward— _Napoleon was down there_ —but remembered Solo's order that he hide and stay hidden until he saw one of his friends.

Solo was the agent.

Solo knew how to play this situation.

Kuryakin moved back again, resolving that he'd have to trust what he'd been told for now. Even if Napoleon was only a greenhorn in U.N.C.L.E., that still placed him ahead of Illya in terms of knowing effective means of surviving scenarios such as this one. The last thing he wanted to do was foil Solo's plan and get them both—and perhaps also Mark and April—killed.

So he waited.

He listened.

After those last earsplitting sounds, Illya half expected the NYPD to come bursting in, possibly towing along the National Guard and the FBI for good measure, but all was silent.

Then, footsteps.

Coming up from the first floor.

Maybe it was Napoleon.

But what if it wasn't?

He glanced back to where he knew the emergency exit was, even though he couldn't see it through the tablecloth. Napoleon had only told him to stay there if he could. And if that wasn't Solo on the stairs…

The Russian crawled backwards until he was out from under the table, then slowly rose almost to a full standing position as he took his first steps to the exit, keeping one hand behind his back and under his jacket, close to but not touching the weapon hidden there.

"Illya!"

He spun around, and there was Napoleon Solo: in one piece, on his feet, shoes and coat thrown on over pajamas, rakishly grinning as he stood next to one of the many bookcases in the dining room.

Illya released a breath, sighing, "Oh, Napoleon, you made it."

The grin widened, right side climbing higher in a way that Kuryakin could not recall seeing before.

"Illya," Napoleon said in a more subdued voice than that with which he'd introduced his arrival, "it's alright now. Come here. It's alright."

Something was off.

Illya smiled and started forward. He glanced to the bookcase at Solo's side.

The grin didn't falter. The American's voice became even calmer. "You heard me, right? I said it's alright."

Solo had no weapon.

Illya nodded and moved nearer. He noted that, while the bookcase was tall, it had some space between its top and the ceiling. "Yes, Napoleon, I heard you."

"I said it's _alright_. I'm saying what I mean and I meant what I said."

No reason for the man from U.N.C.L.E. to linger halfway across the room.

Nearer still, and Illya practically purred, "Ah, Lewis Carroll. Delightful." He looked to the ground and saw no evidence of anything securing the bookcase to the floor. Hopefully.

"You have to trust me, Illya."

"I trust you. Do not worry, my friend, I understand—" He took a couple of bounding steps and leapt up, pounding his feet into the bookcase beside Napoleon and riding it down as it crashed to the floor, trapping a strangled cry under it with a crash and a gunshot. "—completely."

"Oh-ho, my… crazy Russian." Napoleon grabbed Illya by the elbow and started hustling him toward a doorway near the far end of the room: not the emergency exit, but the arch through which there were stairs leading to the third floor. "I told you it was 'alright', not 'okay'! What the hell—"

"I understood you perfectly."

"You were supposed to make a break for it, you idiot!"

"You only specified what words meant 'safe' versus 'unsafe'. You never told me how to react." He stumbled a few times as Solo tugged him under the stairwell and, as they crouched, he reached for his back. Once he'd retrieved the gun, he offered it to a startled Napoleon. "A man tried to hold me downstairs, so I knocked him out and took this, but I am not confident in its use."

Napoleon gathered his jaw from the floor and the gun from Illya's outstretched hand. "You're amazing. Insane, but amazing."

"I accept both as a compliment."

The pair gave a start at the sound of a door opening and a man's voice from back in the dining room calling softly, "Angelique? All good in here?"

Solo pressed his mouth close to his companion's ear and spoke in a barely-audible whisper. "Must've come in from the fire escape."

Kuryakin blinked rapidly a few times and repressed the urge to swallow hard, as that seemed like too noisy an enterprise at this time. But if he'd ran out the emergency exit as he'd been planning to…

"Let's go upstairs," Napoleon continued. "Stay close."

Illya nodded briefly and let Napoleon keep a hold on his upper arm to make sure he kept however close the older man thought was suitable, and to take advantage of the fact that the tight grip was somewhat helpful in keeping his bum knee from wobbling off to the side, as it now seemed wont to do. Solo's non-arm-clutching hand maintained a much more confident grip on the gun than Kuryakin was sure he himself had been managing not too long ago.

The staircase to the third floor was, fortunately, carpeted with the same plush material as the previous set of stairs, but Solo nonetheless leaned in to whisper an urge to tread lightly. Almost as one, they hurried on up, Napoleon only sparing a single glance over the rail to check if they were being followed.

As soon as they had reached the upper story, Napoleon opened that level's emergency door and took a quick look to the fire escape beyond. He declared, "Clear," and lightly pulled Illya closer to the exit just as a pounding started up from the stairs they'd barely vacated.

"I know you're up there, you little bitches!" the same man's voice from the dining room yelled.

Napoleon more insistently yanked Illya the rest of the way onto the fire escape, all the way to the rail at the side of the narrow balcony opposite the building.

"Okay?" Solo called down.

"Okay-okay-okay," Slate rushed as a woman—CEA Crane—hissed, "Hurry up!"

"Catch!"

Before Illya could wonder what was to be caught and who would be doing the catching, he was foisted over the railing and, next thing he knew, safely held up by Mark and the other spy. They set him down as a couple of gunshots rang out from above, and Napoleon dropped next to them shortly afterward, staggering a bit upon landing but unshaken enough to urge, "Let's get the hell out of Dodge."

"Slate in front," Crane ordered. "I'll come behind." She gave Illya a quick shove to get his feet moving and told him to stay by Mark's back. As they made their way to the front of the building, she asked, "How many?"

"At least four inside," Napoleon said, hobbling a bit but managing to keep pace as he maintained a guiding hand on Illya's shoulder blade. "Two on the first floor, one on the second, one on the third."

Crane came forward and opened the rear door of a yellow cab, ushered them in, and said, "Four T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, practically gift-wrapped. Like Christmas in July for us. All of you get back to HQ. Backup's almost here and they'll help me with cleanup." The door slammed shut before they could reply, and the cab signaled before pulling away from the curb.

"Hi, April," Mark said cheerily.

April grinned at them through the rearview mirror as she flipped off the turn signal. "Hello, my dudes. We'll head to Broadway, then use Evasion Pattern 9. Enjoy the sightseeing tour if you can."

"Thank you, Chauffeur April." Napoleon patted Illya's forearm. "How're we holding up, buddy?"

Illya blinked, then shook his head with a frown as if he were trying to throw off a daze. He managed a barely scornful look in response to the royal 'we', or perhaps to being called 'buddy', or perhaps both. "I… fine. You're the one with… foot problem."

"Ah, 'tis but a scratch." Napoleon leaned forward and pulled a blanket from beneath the passenger seat, unfolding it and tucking it up around Illya's shoulders. "Just in case."

Illya promptly pushed it down. "No… it's… hot."

"Sorry about that," April called back. "I turned up the heat a little since I wasn't sure how you'd be after that little incident. Y'know, keep it toasty-warm and safe and snug in case you were rattled."

Napoleon eyed the sweat beading on Illya's forehead. Even though they'd both exerted themselves a bit, he didn't remember the blond's being quite so moist a few minutes ago. Or his skin being quite so pale. Or his face quite so tight.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Illya turned his head slowly, gaze settling just left of Napoleon. He reached up and touched his own ears. "Ri—ring…"

Napoleon firmed his grip on the forearm. "Ringing in your ears?"

"I—ohhh." He leaned forward, holding his stomach.

Mark promptly produced a plastic shopping bag from his jacket pocket, pried off one of Illya's hands, and pressed the impromptu carsick receptacle into his fingers. He looked to Napoleon, "Are you okay? Weren't any gases in the building?"

"Not that I was a party to. Illya, did one of them give—"

Illya's breath stuttered several times before he cut Solo off with, "Pa… _panic_."

Drawing back on what he'd learned in Montana, Napoleon raised his voice a bit to ensure he'd be heard. "It's a panic attack?"

It sounded like a tremendous fight to get out sounds besides strained breathing. "Yes—fine—soon."

April glanced through the rearview mirror, sharing an "oh crap" look with her two cohorts in the backseat. Mark then settled for looping his arm with Illya's and rubbing circles into his shoulder. When Illya suddenly started shivering, Napoleon pulled up the blanket again and took off his own jacket, covering Illya with that as well before repeating to the others that Illya would be alright soon enough, although maybe not before they got back to HQ.

"Luh… lady…"

"You don't have to talk now, Illya," Napoleon soothed, a bit quieter than he'd intended.

"Wha—can't—"

Mark caught on to the idea that Illya's hearing was somewhat impaired at the moment, so he repeated for the American at a higher volume, "You don't have to talk, mate, just relax. You're okay."

"Just breathe, Illya," Napoleon said, loudly again. "Breathe with me. One, two…"

Illya shook his head quickly, apparently regretted it if the subsequent several seconds of dry-heaving into the plastic bag were any indication, and tried again: "Lady—door—who?"

"What lady, Illya?" asked Solo, deciding not to pursue his pro-breathing argument for fear that it would perturb the Russian further.

Each syllable was a staccato note. "Lady—cab?"

April called back, "The lady who brought you into the cab?"

"Yes!"

The others held off on replying at first, as Illya's breathing became shallower and he stared blindly ahead, blinking and squinting and tilting his head slightly as if trying to focus his vision. Napoleon asked if he could see alright.

"It—blur—fine." He took as deep a breath as he could manage and cut off Napoleon's second attempt at breathing tutorials with a sharp, "Answer!"

Mark supplied, "The lady was Ms. Crane. She's second banana to the big boss of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York office."

"No." Illya held up the bag close to his mouth for a few moments. When nothing came of it, he lowered the bag again. "Bagel. Squash."

The collective gears of the others' collective brains worked for a short while before Napoleon hazarded a guess. "You think Ms. Crane looked like the lady at the bagel shop who sold you on the pumpkin spice?"

"Yes! But—voice."

"Her voice sounds like the lady at the bagel shop?"

"No! Holly—holid—Eng…" A selection of Russian swearwords tumbled out before he started hyperventilating.

Napoleon urged in a near-shout, "She sounded like the professor who showed you the silly holiday specials? She looks like the bagel shop lady and sounds like Dr. Egret?"

Illya nodded vigorously, and Napoleon wrapped both arms around him, focusing his efforts on trying to even out Kuryakin's breathing as Mark asked April, "Does Crane have any legit reason to—does U.N.C.L.E. have a bagel shop as a front?"

"Not that I've heard of." She single-handedly drew her communicator from a pocket and spoke into it. "Open channel S." Static. "Channel S. Hello? Mark, try yours."

Mark accordingly produced his device and requested the same channel. When that didn't work, he continued, "Channel P? Channel Q? I got nothing."

April squirmed a bit. "Not sure about you, pal, but I vote we ditch the cab."

Mark countered, "He's having a fucking panic attack. Might not be thinking straight."

"He's making some concerning connections," she countered his countering, "and our communicators are out. I'm driving this thing." She took a sudden left turn without signaling. "We're heading a couple blocks off Evasion Pattern 9 and I'm pulling it over. We have to stick together so we're all getting out."

"Yes, ma'am. You catch that, Polo?"

"Yes," Napoleon said, clipped. "Illya?"

Illya nodded to confirm having heard his name being called, but the effort he had to put into breathing didn't leave him room to use words.

"Can you walk?"

He shook his head, and the obvious rattling of his knees seconded that statement.

"Slate and I will carry him," April decided. "Solo, you just focus on staggering along and keeping up with us."

"Roger that."

Two more abrupt turns later, and with a screech of tires, the cab stopped at a curb. Napoleon and April got out first, and Mark helped Illya to the edge of the backseat, so April could loop her arms under his knees while Mark hooked his arms under Illya's shoulders. They exited the vehicle and had barely taken two steps when all three agents' communicators beeped at once.

Napoleon, being the only one unburdened by an Illya at the present time, extracted his device from the back of his waistband, clipped the receiver to his ear, and said as they started their little procession down the sidewalk, "Solo."

 _"Mother-effing hell, I could kiss you."_

Solo almost laughed at the raspy-voiced secretary's intonation in spite of the situation. "Sorry, Gerry-pie, I'm taken."

" _Are you still in the cab Crane provided?"_

"That's a negative. We got a funny feeling about it so we ditched."

" _Good call, bub. We got a funny feeling too—about Crane being a bird of another feather. An Egret, to be specific. Non-negligible chance of the cab being—"_

And Napoleon never heard the tail end of that, seeing as a resounding BOOM had just emanated from behind. Upon whipping around to take a peek, it turned out the cab (ex-cab, really) was ablaze and not entirely in one piece.

"Uh, sorry, Ger. I didn't catch that. The cab seems to have exploded."

" _Eloquent. Ditch Kuryakin's shoes and proceed two blocks north from your current position. Then cross the street and head four blocks east. You'll be met by an Officer Washington who'll give you a lift and drop you off around the corner from Del Floria's."_

"Understood."

" _Later, liebchen."_

Napoleon looked to his friends to ask if they had gotten all that, but they had obviously been too busy improvising an argument in response to some of the askance glances they'd been getting due to their toting a trembling body.

Really, he'd thought New Yorkers were more jaded than that, and that the exploding car would have been more entertaining at the very least.

"What part of 'can't hold his liquor' did you not understand?" April groused at Mark.

Before Mark could cleverly retort, Napoleon cut in, "We're to rendezvous with a cop a couple of blocks away—and get rid of the trackers." Solo quickly yanked off Illya's sneakers and chucked them across the street. As he started leading the way, he added, "Oh, and apparently our Crane is a T.H.R.U.S.H."

"Crane?" April gasped.

"Yep. At this point, we should probably just axe anybody with an even vaguely ornithological name."

Mark hummed. "Byrd in Accounting wouldn't like that."

April shrugged as much as she could while holding on to Illya's legs. "He might. It'd free him from the hell of reviewing Napoleon's expense accounts."

"True."

Napoleon pulled a face but faded back to walk with Mark, by Illya's head. "How're you holding up?"

Before Illya could attempt a reply, Mark started singing "Rule Britannia" at the top of his lungs, so Napoleon joined in as they passed a small group of people.

"You idiots!" April snapped, just a bit of melodrama dripping in. "Why don't you—?"

"I wanna pony…"

Napoleon burst out laughing as Mark continued singing and April continued grumbling and all of them were delighted that Illya was alert enough to make his own contribution. Observing the ghost of a smirk on the Russian's face, Napoleon was relieved that Illya was able to catch on to the old _we're completely hammered_ ruse and play along.

After roughly two and a half eternities, they encountered a police cruiser at the designated spot. Napoleon tapped on the passenger window and it rolled down. "Officer Washington, I presume?"

"Uncle Waverly's folks?"

Napoleon produced his business card and the cruiser doors were unlocked. He opened the rear door for his companions, got himself into the passenger seat, and buckled up.

"Is that gentleman alright?" the officer asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"I-I'm fine," Illya answered for himself.

The officer nodded and kept quiet for the rest of the drive. As they approached the drop-off point, Mark said, "Illya, you up to walking, mate?"

"Not… quickly. Not with… without help."

"Think you can hold on if I give you a piggyback?"

"Yes."

The cruiser pulled over moments later and, while Mark and April hustled Illya out from the backseat, Napoleon offered, "Thanks for the ride, officer."

"To protect and serve, Mr. Solo. You and me both."

Napoleon flashed a grin and hopped out of the car. Once the vehicle started off, Mark hurried off toward the tailor shop, followed closely by April, who helped keep Napoleon limping along expeditiously.

Mark grunted a bit. "Small but dense, bless your socks," he quipped to his passenger. Illya laughed feebly and the Brit noticed the hands loosely gripping his shoulders were still shaking. "Almost out of the woods, matey."

Mark didn't even have to slow his stride as he reached the door: Del Floria had been advised of their impending arrival and accordingly descended from his apartment above the shop, waiting for the group to turn up.

"'Sup, Sal?" April chirped as the older man shut and bolted the door behind them.

"Glad everyone's in one piece," he returned, turning off the lights after allowing just enough time for Napoleon to pull the lever. The panel opened, flooding the dressing compartment with light, and Mark stepped on through to Reception.

Once the panel slapped shut, April released Napoleon's arm and moved to the desk, collecting four badges as the receptionist picked up the desk phone and started quietly talking into it. April clipped a badge on herself before distributing the others to the guys, clipping the Visitor badge to Illya's shirt pocket.

The violet-haired receptionist spoke. "I called for a couple of wheelchairs to take Napoleon and Mr. Kuryakin to Medical."

"I'm still on my feet," Napoleon protested as Illya snapped, "I'm fine."

The receptionist was unamused. "You're on _a_ foot," she told the former. "And you're obviously not okay," she informed the latter.

Illya promptly squirmed around until Mark got the hint and let him go, then promptly swayed on his feet until April grabbed his arm out of fear that he'd promptly drop to the floor.

"I do not need Medical," he insisted, leaning a bit more on April than he'd like. "I need only a chair."

"It's coming," Napoleon reminded him drily, "and it's going to take you to Medical."

"And you with me," Illya returned, sourly.

The receptionist cut in with, "Orders are that you both go to Medical for evaluation and whatever treatment is necessary. Dancer, Slate, one of you is to stick with Mr. Kuryakin while the other gets started on a preliminary mission report for Mr. Waverly. He'll debrief the four of you tomorrow… well, today. 1800 hours."

Illya muttered to himself in Russian about not being obliged to follow orders as the other three exchanged a nervous glance at the prospect of being debriefed by the top man of the New York office.

Dancer recovered first and smiled to the blond, "Well, Illya, would you prefer me or Marky Mark to keep you company?"

He scowled at the receptionist before politely informing April, "It has been a tiring night and I would like to go to my room, if you don't mind." Back to glowering at the receptionist. "My room at my dorm building. I have done nothing wrong and I will not be held here against my will."

The receptionist smiled thinly at him as the automatic door behind her desk opened and a pair of nurses pushing a pair of wheelchairs came through. She looked to Solo with a vaguely beseeching expression. "Napoleon, is there any way I could persuade you to set a good example for our guest? Go willingly?"

Napoleon looked to his boyfriend, decided the blond's current state was somewhat less than robust, and gave a magnificent sigh as he limped over to one of the waiting medical workers and lowered himself into a wheelchair. He fixed a long-suffering gaze on the younger man. "Don't make me go back there alone."

Illya scowled. His U.N.C.L.E. friends had gotten him well away from Angelique and her goons, however, so he figured he owed them one and gave in with a curt nod. Then nurse with the empty chair accommodatingly moved closer, and Illya asked grimly, "Can I not walk there?"

April supplied, "Pretty sure I'm supporting over fifty percent of your weight here, champ, so… have a seat, huh?"

Illya gave a small sigh which Napoleon interpreted as saying _the things I do for you people_ , but nonetheless placed himself in the wheelchair, keeping his equilibrium by holding April's arm rather more tightly than he'd ever admit to doing.

Mark piped up, "Think I'll get started on our report. Once I've run out of things I write up on my own, I'll join you in Medical and we can have a rousing game of fill-in-the-blank for the rest, yeah?"

The Brit accordingly strode off to start the paperwork, and Dancer walked alongside Illya's wheelchair as the brigade bound for Medical started on its way.

"As I'm being kept in this clandestine institution against my wishes," Kuryakin commented, "will I at least be privy to the content of your little report?"

Solo, being pushed along in the lead, called back, "I for one intend to have you listed as one of the agents on the case, so that should entitle you to most if not all the details. If it turns out there's anything top-secret to do with it, none of us will be privy to that. But you should at least get the gist of what went down from our end."

Dancer concurred. "Karolyn—the receptionist—said that all four of us would be debriefed, so that sounds like Mr. Waverly is cool with you being in on it."

When Kuryakin gave a grunt and a nod, Solo turned around as well he could and leaned a bit to see behind the nurse guiding the chair along. "Aren't you going to ask who Mr. Waverly is?"

Illya pouted a bit and shrugged. "If you want me to. He is the boss at the New York office, yes?"

"Is that the 'relevant-to-your-field-of-study' stuff you were looking for when you holed yourself up in your room earlier?"

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me."

While Illya's eyes were playful, his jaw was set, so Napoleon gave up (for now) on getting any more out of him. The brunet accordingly changed tacks, offering, "When I called you crazy and insane earlier, I didn't mean—"

"I know. _That_ did not offend me."

Solo frowned. "Then what did offend you?"

Kuryakin drew himself up as tall as he could manage while remaining seated. It made his ribcage give a protest in the form of increased pain, but breathing also elicited that response, so he ignored it and said, "In future, I would appreciate some forewarning when I am to be flung off a balcony."

Napoleon flashed a smile, getting a better view of the miffed Russian as they turned into Medical. "Will do. Sorry about that, but the quickest route between two points is a straight line, so I thought I'd save you the trouble of taking the stairs."

Illya scoffed softly as he, the nurse pushing his wheelchair, and April headed toward one exam room and Napoleon was carted off to a second room in the opposite direction.

Once inside the private space, Dancer plopped herself in a chair in the corner and the bespectacled, black-haired doctor already in the room drew a curtain partway around the exam table, effectively blocking April's view of where Illya would soon be positioned.

"I am Dr. Jimenez. Would you prefer me to call you 'Illya' or 'Mr. Kuryakin'?"

Illya blanked his expression. "As I imagine we are about to get rather chummy, 'Illya' will do."

"Okay, Illya, let's get you settled up here and you can tell me what ails you."

Soon enough, the blond was out of the chair and on the exam table, and the nurse shut the door most of the way, leaving it just slightly ajar in what Illya could only assume was a gesture to indicate that he could (theoretically) leave whenever he liked. Kuryakin launched into fulfillment of his duty.

"In order of the incidence of injury, I twisted my left knee when running rather overenthusiastically, my right hand was cut by some glass, and I may have bruised a rib or two." He concluded in a shout, "A situation not helped by my having been callously catapulted from the third floor!"

Napoleon's voice returned, "I said sorry!"

Illya almost smirked at that, but it ended as a wince. Shouting, it seemed, had not been the best idea.

Over the course of his exam, his jacket and shirt were cut off on the right side to avoid pressing any glass into his hand, he was reassured that the garments would be repaired for him in short order, his hand was de-glassed and bandaged thoroughly, the doctor concluded that probably more than one or two ribs were bruised, and he was then carted to different rooms to have his knee X-rayed and scanned by an MRI machine, before being given standard-issue pajamas from the Medical section.

Back in the original exam room, Dr. Jimenez declared, "Nothing broken, but you tore a ligament. Not severe enough for surgery, but you won't be going anywhere in a hurry for some time." She reached back to accept a knee brace the nurse handed over. As she fixed it to Kuryakin's joint, she added, "I imagine the adrenaline rush has run out by now, no?"

Kuryakin tapped lightly at the brace, curiosity compelling him to make a brief investigation of the object. He acknowledged absently, "You have a reasonable imagination."

Dr. Jimenez held out a couple of pills. "OTC pain medication," she explained. "You will likely need it for a little while, but something stronger is unnecessary."

"May I see the bottle it came from?"

Jimenez motioned to the nurse, who left and returned quickly with the container. Kuryakin took it and turned it around quickly in his good hand until he had been satisfied by the _Gluten free_ note on the label.

Once Illya had accepted and down the medicine with a gulp of water, Dr. Jimenez added, "I have been informed that your normal accommodations are unsafe, so you will stay in a room here overnight."

Before the Russian could launch into disagreement, Dancer put in, "It's true, Illya. Angelique and company obviously know where we live, and they've just shown they're willing to stage an abduction attempt. If anyone else is sent out to try and finish the job, you're hardly in any condition to defend yourself this time."

Illya glanced between his friend and the doctor. "Only overnight, yes? I will only stay willingly until we have met with your Mr. Waverly." He noted the doctor's amused expression. "Allow me to assure you, Dr. Jimenez, that regardless of my current physical limitations, I am well-practiced in making myself a most unpleasant patient."

The doctor shook her head, still repressing a grin. "And I assure you, Illya, that most patients are unpleasant here at U.N.C.L.E."

* * *

In his shared office, Mark had just taken his seat and booted up his laptop when the phone rang. He grabbed it off the cradle and, hoping to encourage brevity, greeted curtly, "Slate."

 _"Hiya, Starfish."_

Mark sighed. So much for brevity. "Gerry, once for all: what on earth ever possessed you to start calling me that?"

 _"In your Personnel file photo, your hair's got some impressive radial symmetry goin' on."_

"I'll pretend that makes sense."

 _"Anywho, I'm calling 'cause the IAA wants you filled in on a couple things."_

"The Ia-what?"

 _"IAA."_

"IAA?"

 _"Internal Affairs Agent."_

"Internal…?"

 _"The agent Waverly assigns to anonymously investigate anything fishy within the agency?"_

"Within the…?"

 _"Any bells ringing over there, kid?"_

"I've not slept in over twenty hours. My bell's not firing on all cylinders."

Gerry chuckled. _"Okay, I'll just pass along the message and you transcribe it to your computer. You can mentally process it at your leisure."_

Mark opened a document. "Fire at will."

 _"Here we go then. Crane wasn't handling the Kuryakin affair the way Waverly thought she would, and that set his Spidey-sense a-tingling."_ Pause. _"Get it?_ _ **Spy**_ _-dey sense?"_

"I like a good pun, Gerry, but that ain't one of 'em."

 _"Eh, you're just too tired to appreciate me. So Waverly had the IAA look into Crane's activities. It turns out Crane was in Cambridge around the same time that Dr. Egret resigned from the university. And Crane was also on assignment in Washington state—y'know, not far from Montana—when Kuryakin had a couple of panic attacks. And boy, did Waverly really get his knickers in a twist when he found out that I had to be the one sending out armed guards to monitor the Solos' place out there. Following me, Starfish?"_

"Let's go with 'yes'."

 _"Alrighty. So when y'all were called out to stop the abduction attempt earlier today, you took the cab with Crane, and Crane said she had backup following you, right? Only the backup was intercepted by T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives. Our people eventually got by, and in the process they picked up one of the operatives, who squawked real fast."_

"'Kay."

 _"T.H.R.U.S.H. planned to get Kuryakin to that restaurant one way or another, and they wanted to capture both him and Solo. Kuryakin was the main target, but they hoped to use Solo's continued good health as incentive to get Kuryakin to work for them. The backup plan in the event that the restaurant capture failed was to have you guys follow Evasion Pattern 9: more Thrushes would be along that route, hijack the cab, snatch the targets, and leave you and Dancer to go kaboom with the vehicle."_

"Always did want to go out with a bang."

 _"In that case, my condolences on your thwarting the evil plot. Anyway, when our agents arrived at the restaurant, the place was deserted and they found a facemask of Crane and a wig on the premises. Dr. Egret's known to have some experience with fancy disguises, so we can only conclude that the real CEA Crane is dead or imprisoned, and Egret has been using her identity for the past few months."_

Mark hesitated. "You've been with U.N.C.L.E. longer than I. What do you think the chances are she's alive?"

 _"Seeing as she's the CEA, Crane's got a lot of valuable information. My gut says she's alive but not, uh… comfortable."_ A wheeze of a humorless laugh. _"But hey, kid, I'm just a secretary, right? Maybe she's literally running around a farm upstate having the time of her life. What do I know?"_

"You seem to know enough, Gerry. Anything else I should take note of?"

 _"Yeah, the IAA wants Kuryakin listed as an agent on the case. You're authorized to tell him everything."_

"That'll be about as fun as major dental surgery."

 _"Happy drilling, Starfish."_

* * *

As crutches would likely be too uncomfortable given the rib situation, Kuryakin was given a cane to help keep some weight off his knee and escorted to a small room with a bed, a couch, a couple of tables with a pitcher of water and glasses on one, and a small window with thick glass. Illya was herded to the bed before he could mount a protest, and April made herself at home on the couch until Napoleon came in on crutches a few minutes later.

"What's the word, little bird?" Solo quipped to his boyfriend.

Kuryakin glared. "You might want to try that again." A gesture to the cast on Solo's right foot. "Unless you'd like another of those."

Solo headed over to the couch, settling in the spot Dancer left for him and taking her up on the invitation to rest his injured appendage across her knees. "What injuries were sustained?" he reattempted.

"Bruised ribs, torn ligament in the knee, some cuts and scratches to my hand. And you?"

"Fractured le foot in a couple places."

April pouted. "So that ski weekend I didn't have planned is out, huh?"

"I'm in."

The trio looked to the door, at Mark and the laptop balanced on one arm.

"'Bout time we had an excuse to ditch these losers," he added to April with a humorous shift of his eyes between Napoleon and Illya. He settled himself on the floor and declared that he'd done about as much of the report as he could on his own, then filled them in on the information Gerry had passed along. Solo piped up with some details of what had happened inside the restaurant, which Slate entered into the report.

"Alright then. Now—" Mark tapped a few keys and looked up to Illya. "—tell us about Bagel Shop Lady, if you please."

Illya half-shrugged, a minimal motion given that pretty much any action that involved anything remotely close to his ribs hurt, even after the medicine he'd been given. "There is little to tell. I only stopped in once, and the lady looked like your alleged Ms. Crane. She sounded like Dr. Egret, however, and I may have betrayed some surprise or expression of recognition. Perhaps she was ensuring I remembered her voice so that the panic attack trigger would work."

Slate hummed and filled in that bit. "Solo heard the Rudolph thing, and we all heard something 'bout Christmas in July earlier. Can you remember what triggered the supermarket incident?"

Illya hesitated. "I thought it was only in my head but… I think a lady next to me in the baked goods aisle said, 'shiny new year'."

The Brit turned to Solo. "That sound like a holiday special to you, Polo?" When he received a nod in response, Slate typed that in and looked back to Kuryakin. "Any other incidents to report that we don't know of? With Egret, or Crane, or the bagel lady, or Angelique?"

Illya shook his head, then stopped. "Well… the panic attacks I experienced at Cambridge. I believe those were also presaged by Egret's voice, but I never mentioned that to anybody, as I thought they were in my head." He hesitated again before admitting, "You see, my mental health record is not the dullest of histories, and I was reluctant to add auditory hallucinations to my repertoire."

Mark nodded and, aware that dwelling on that admission would likely make the Russian uncomfortable, typed it in quietly before asking, "Anything else suspicious or odd that you have not mentioned?"

"While I tend to be suspicious and odd in and of myself, I cannot recall anything else that may be relevant at the moment. Except that I lost my shoes at some point."

Solo raised a hand. "I took them when we were walking the streets of New York."

A frown. "What for?"

"Crane ordered us to put trackers in your footwear. It was allegedly to be able to track your location from HQ if you got into trouble, but we had to get rid of them when we found out Crane wasn't actually Crane."

"And I suppose Mr. Waverly might mention a little something else tomorrow," Slate added. He looked to his colleagues and gestured toward Kuryakin. "Shall we…?"

Dancer informed Kuryakin briefly, "We also had to monitor your dorm room."

Illya's expression blanked. "Inside or out?"

"In."

"Video or audio?"

"Both."

Kuryakin went quiet for almost a full minute, then said, "Perhaps we ought to get some sleep now."

Dancer and Slate got up to leave. Once they were almost at the door, April looked back with an eyebrow raised at Napoleon, who shook his head with a small smile.

As the others took their leave, Solo readjusted himself to settle across the length of the couch and asked, "So how are we holding up?"

Kuryakin frowned. "While my injuries seem more extensive than yours, I expect we'll both pull through."

"I meant our collective friendship. Finding out that April, Mark, and I have been spying on you can't be the pleasantest thing in the world."

"You did, I assume, what duty compelled you. Naturally I would prefer to have kept my private life private but, as you were given orders by a woman you believed to be your superior officer, I cannot be angry." He stifled a yawn. "The real question is whether you feel differently toward me."

"I consider my question at least as valid as yours." Napoleon did not stifle his yawn. "I must admit there are one or two things that confuse me, but I don't feel any different toward you." Well, that may have been stretching the truth a bit, but the rather more protective feelings he'd gained weren't negative, so he figured that disclosure could wait.

Illya had to work harder at stifling the yawn prompted by his companion's. "What confuses you, my friend?"

"We can talk about that when we're more awake." He smiled sleepily. "Meanwhile, we can drop off to Dreamland with visions of exploding doughnuts dancing in our heads."

Kuryakin gave up on the not-yawning business. "If I cannot eat doughnuts, I can at least dispatch them in another manner," he half-explained. Noting that Solo seemed to have settled in for a nap, he said, "You would not be more comfortable sleeping in a bed?"

"Right now I could sleep in a briar patch. Or in a grove of doughnut trees."

Yawn. "Doughnuts do not grow on trees."

"Astute as always, mon chou. You grasp how tired I am. Now let's get some shuteye."

* * *

By 1800 hours, Dancer, Kuryakin, Slate, and Solo were awake, bathed, dressed in the clothes that had been brought for them, and informed by Mr. Waverly's secretary that they could go straight into the office of the head of Section One.

They entered, and Waverly promptly gave something that might have been a chuckle. "Such grim faces. Come now and sit."

They sat, and Waverly opened one of the files before him on the enormous round table. "Most interesting reading, this report of yours." He proceeded to ask several questions, each directed to the individual U.N.C.L.E. trainees in turn. The answers to his queries had been made obvious in the document and were therefore only being demanded to ensure all three recruits knew what was in the file.

Apparently satisfied, Waverly asked, "Do you believe there is anything you missed and which I ought to know now?"

"No, sir," the trio chorused.

Waverly nodded. "Then now we come to the infamous Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya, who'd been largely ignored up until now and had been on the verge of dropping off, quickly straightened up his posture. "Sir?"

"Not infamous in a bad way, Mr. Kuryakin, I assure you. Not entirely, at least. Really, it is quite a relief that you seem to come down on our side of things—" Waverly shut and pushed aside the file he'd had opened, placing his attention on a second file that he flipped open. "—considering that you would make quite the impressive asset on either side. Little wonder T.H.R.U.S.H. has been angling for you. Rather a failure on our part that you were not brought to our attention earlier than these past few months."

Illya blinked rapidly. "Asset?"

"B.S. Mathematics, B.S. Chemistry, M.S. Computer Science, M.S. Physics, Ph.D.—"

"I am aware of my academic record, sir. I was there the whole time. What I fail to grasp is why you and T.H.R.U.S.H. have been stalking—no, perhaps I can understand why _T.H.R.U.S.H._ would be so underhanded." He glanced around Slate drew a breath, Dancer shut her eyes, and Solo bit his lip. Illya wasn't sure if they were concerned about the old man's reaction or if he himself hadn't been clear enough about stating that he did not blame the three of them for anything.

Mr. Waverly tapped the table. "Now, now, Mr. Slate, Miss Dancer, Mr. Solo. It is perfectly understandable that Mr. Kuryakin should be somewhat distressed."

"With all due respect, sir," Illya said, pleasantly enough despite his icy gaze, "I am not somewhat distressed. I believe one might classify me as being royally pissed off, if you pardon my language."

"Given your academic and athletic capabilities, and that you are currently under no obligation whatever to our organization, I can pardon almost anything, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya frowned. "Currently?"

"Yes. You see, we would very much like to have you join us."

"How very ominous of you."

"Not so very ominous, Mr. Kuryakin. Indeed, we are in the business of preventing the ominous from occurring. Our role is, as you are aware, to promote peace and global security, and our primary opponent is, as you are aware, T.H.R.U.S.H., who operate with the modest goal of world domination."

"Charming, I'm sure."

"A man of your talents could do a great deal of damage, Mr. Kuryakin. We would appreciate if that damage were directed toward T.H.R.U.S.H. operations."

"I have not finished my schooling. You expect me to abandon my studies to assist you in…" Illya made a skeptical noise. "…saving the world?"

"Good heavens, no. We want you to complete your doctorate. As you do so, however, we will provide you with our own training and, once you have finished both aspects of your education, you will become an agent. If you consent, of course."

Napoleon watched intently as Illya glanced skyward. The corner of the Russian's mouth twitched the barest bit before he placed both hands firmly on the table and returned his attention to Mr. Waverly.

"I did a bit of research when my friends informed me of their association with U.N.C.L.E., sir. I want to be in Enforcement."

Mr. Waverly nodded. "You may expect at least half of your assignments to be in the field, but I expect you to lend your services to the labs when necessary."

"I understand that my medical needs will be provided and paid for by the organization, and that those needs include those derived from both field work and all other sources."

"You are correct."

"Every year I will require one week of my choosing to spend, undisturbed, with my parents."

"Certainly."

"I must at least occasionally have the privilege of working with the people currently sitting by me."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"I anticipate completing my doctoral work within the next two years. If I start here when I am twenty, I should like to retire by forty, regardless of your doctors' assessment of my medical standing."

"Granted."

"In lieu of the cash signing bonus, I should like a telescope of equal value."

"A telescope?"

"Yes. I believe your organization could furnish me with one of better quality and at a lower cost than I could attain independently."

"Quite right, quite right. Very well. A telescope. Is that all, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"That is all, Mr. Waverly."

"In that case, Mr. Kuryakin, welcome to U.N.C.L.E. You will begin your training as soon as you have provided a patch for the flaw that allowed you to conduct your 'bit of research.'"

" _A_ patch for _the_ flaw? Begging your pardon, sir, but a full-body cast would be more appropriate."

"You will, nonetheless, provide it."

"With pleasure, sir."

"Seeing as T.H.R.U.S.H. has caught on to your whereabouts, you will all spend another night here while we procure new accommodations for you. Your belongings have been collected and will be relocated to your new housing. Dismissed."

Once outside with the Old Man's office door safely shut behind them, Dancer and Slate high-fived each other in congratulation for having managed to survive a meeting with the top man, congratulated Kuryakin on entering the fold, then headed off to find where in the building their belongings had been stashed.

Solo, a bit of a smirk curling his mouth, turned to Kuryakin. "A telescope, huh? What happened to your vendetta against C.S. Lewis?"

With a _whoosh_ , the tip of Illya's cane was suddenly inches from Napoleon's nose. "It is your fault."

Napoleon leaned back a bit to avoid any accidental collisions between stick and schnozz. "I'm… sorry?"

"My life was perfectly tolerable until you charged in. I knew what I would be doing each and every day. I had only to focus on the path before me, keep my head down, and do my work."

The American leaned a little farther back as the Russian readjusted his grip on the cane and brought the tip closer again.

"You distract me. You surprise me. You leave me with no choice but to acknowledge that the world is more than that which I construct in my mind, as well as having the potential to be… better than what I often imagine."

Napoleon regained a less skewed stance as the tip of the cane returned to its rightful place on the floor.

"Having been so reminded, it would be irresponsible for me not to devote some attention to things external to myself." Illya straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "In light of that, I believe in future I should like to look up now and again."

Napoleon smiled. "Sounds like a good idea."

Illya looked mildly disturbed. " _You_ think it is? In that case, perhaps I should change my plans."

Solo patted his shoulder and they started heading out of Waverly's secretary's office. "You know, I had a telescope when I was a kid. Maybe I can help you out now and again."

"I fail to see how playing with a primary-colored, plastic piece of pseudo-astronomical equipment could qualify you for assisting with the real thing."

As the door slid shut behind them, the secretary pressed the intercom button.

" _Yes, Ms. Khan."_

"Your impression from the report seems to be correct, Mr. Waverly. Solo and Kuryakin appear to get on quite well together."

" _Yes, yes, thank you, Ms. Khan. I thought as much. Make a note of it to ensure I consider them for a partnership someday."_

"Yes, sir."

 **THE END**

* * *

A/N: Well, that be it. Never fully satisfied with anything I write (is that a good thing?) but, considering this was intended to be under 3000 words of fluff before it turned into this little monster, it turned out about as well as I could expect for the time being. I have some vague idea that I might attempt a sequel of sorts but, seeing as there tend to be multi-year intervals between my stories, nobody hold their breath, :)

Anyway, some things are left _not_ tied-up-with-a-bow-and-definitively-ended on purpose. If I excluded some stuff you think deserved to be wrapped up all neat-like, let me know and maybe I'll remedy the situation.

Thanks for reading through to the finale! :D

Credits:

I stole Napoleon, Illya, Waverly, Angelique, Egret, Del Floria, and Aunt Amy from "The Man from U.N.C.L.E."

April and Mark are from "The Girl from U.N.C.L.E."

Morse and Jakes were briefly borrowed from "Endeavour"

Agent Grayson of the Bludhaven Affair in Act I was pointlessly taken from Batman/Nightwing/Teen Titans/whatever lousy comic they're ruining the character of Dick Grayson in these days

Unless I forgot to mention someone else who is not mine (did I?), everybody else is an OC stuck in to accommodate the tenuous thread of a plotline I had going


End file.
